At One With the Disposal People

In the darkness and in the light this poetry gathers.

Outside I can hear the cans rattling as the gatherers

of trash make their rounds. I look out

and they see me, and we wave. We do that most every morning

when I am downstairs having breakfast. That much, at least,

we have in common, a Von Economo network of neurons

that provides a capacity for social awareness, for empathic communion.

But how can they know that? Are they aware, for example, what

I have here, piles of undiscardible collectanea,

freeze-dried, fragmented, and they tell me, pathological ideas as friable

as leaves in autumn, an overflowing garden, wild, unkempt,

not at all dissimilar to this, my mindset: an uninhabitable,

hard disc drive full of mishmosh?

So what do they do with all that trash? I do believe they have that over me.

My verbiage, I think, may actually make walls bulge.

It is like someone with a sore throat, a fire-cracker inside.

Papers stick out of the drawers like newspapers

out of old men’s pockets. What I need, I think, is that better back-up

they’re talking about. I will know that they are there

but they will be invisible No, no! That is even worse.

I need that mess like I need my nose.

Thus my indispensable, my incunabular order of genetic makeup,

the crazy swaddling cradle of my being.