White Trash Haikus

Dedicated to the Unlucky Boys Its 103 degrees tonight my neighbors wearing hot pants. She leaves my trailer in the cool morning. League night at Jiffy bowl I bowl 165. At work the next day I am depressed. First snow in 15 years my 60s Dodge is covered in Jewels I trip over the engine block Deer hunt again orange vest against a blue sky. Drunk by noon. Tractor pull a case of PBR A boot for a pillow. Family reunion Snipe hunting with Marylou. My uncles looking for me. A double barrel shotgun. Heat lightning warm beer my dog yawns. My old lady screams, I grab the Jack Daniels. Pink underwear in my truck. It is winter the grass is dead children play on the old fridge. Its summer the grass is tall children play in the road. The refrigerator hides.
Mr Robinson The old man yells at the old mechanical racing machine, Its whir and ploding clank somehow drowning out the slot machines. "Goddamnitsonofabitch" the game is here as a nostalgia piece, and in Vegas nostalgia is always a week or a day away. The old man moves to into the sports book area. 68 screens, a screen for each year of his life. Marble tables and electronic betting. "Press enter, scroll down, enter horse number and race." " Mr Jonny, HeShe, IMA Skirt chasers are favored in the third race." "Scroll down for results, up arrow, down arrow" The old man pushes the buttons indiscrimnatley. The telebeter beeps The more buttons he pushes the more it beeps. "Sonofabitch" his cigar ash the length of the "new strip" falls onto his shirt. Looking down at the grey smudge, He sits staring at it. "goddamnsonofabitch" The old man gets up and walk out onto the strip. He rubs his left hip Squints his eye in the morning desert sun, I bump into as I wlak out of the casino. I hear under his breath – "goddamnsonofabitch"
Sputnik An old man walks out of his apartment and sits on the front door stoop, he watches a star move slowly across the sky, and Sputnik blinks back like a one eyed man traveling East to West, and the silos in Kansas pace nervously back and forth as a little boy oils his trike, then rides over the families bomb shelter in circles, like Sputnik. And the old Mayans look in the sky and read the old prophecies scratching their heads, as Atlas shrugs his shoulders swatting at a fly, and the world trembles.
Death of the Family Farm In Kansas farmers are playing solitaire on the hood of their John Deeres as their daughters study feminist theory with Dikes in New York while their wives fuck national Geographic Photo Journalists in the back of pickup trucks. The rain stays away, while the bankers burn their cornfields. Now the farmers plant the bones of their unborn children and by autumn the skeletons will knock back and forth in the Great Plains wind. In Iowa, farmers pull out frozen pees from the freezer and warm their food in Nagasaki ovens and watch reruns of "Green Acres".. "Green acres is the place to be, farm living is the life for me¦" The farmers' sons have moved into cities and foreclose on out of work autoworkers in Flynt, and their grand daughters give birth to sub burbs. In Nebraska cornfields are green with strip malls, their sons are harvesting rows of stores. Right now in Kansas, the farmers are still playing solitaire, looking over their fields as the illegals wash their combines and no one is winning.
Cow are good eating! I don't think so.