Ashcan Rantings Poem by Sidney P. Roberts II

Scandal, craziness, lack of patience, most of all
violation of trust led me to cold water bumper pull
trailer minus bath. Leaky and swaying during
storms when dust arroyo changed to raging river
which I thought was going to rush the whole place
away. My home was the size of a machine gun
position. Barely enough room to climb in; you
find yourself in a corner sitting trying not to
move. Poems and stories all scattered around
rejection letters under empty brandy bottles caked
in wax. Beans and rice cooked on hotplate coil
eaten from the only pot with the only spoon with
the only glass broken picked up (there was no
broom) thrown into the fire where the trash the
beer cans the oak the eucalyptus the broken
pallets our despair our hate our confusion burned
making white smoke surround us.

There was Joel the welder, cartographer in the
earth, esconder of beer from wife and daughters,
faller asleep on sofas. Balduino, watcher of hot
movies, loser of cars behind pizza joints, forgetter
that he parked there, innocent notifier of police
who discover his car his drunkenness and
promptly take him away. And they even ate his
pizza. Moises, the roommate, builder of many
things, alien smuggler retired, claimer of fifty
buck debt from Balduino for passage into the
country, teller of stories of narrow escapes from
pinche migra en horses en motos en trockas and
they never catch him never. Federico player of the
one sad song on the out of tune pawn shop six
string that was my birthday present until it
became a five string and a four string and a three
string whispering hoarsely to garnish with the
smoke the tortillas the fresh chiles the roasted
nopalitos stolen from in front the school and
finally me, Sidney, toter of guns, scribbler of
notebooks, occasional hunter of rabbits,
questioner of many things, answerer of some,
failed fisherman and singer/composer of the
future famous Misogynist Anthem.

Back then the smell in your nose, the tears
staining your cheek, and the mix of chiles,
emotion, poverty, and brotherhood which caused
them was at times something like raw primitive
beauty. I stood many nights around the fire with
four of the last true men. Every penny minus
rations and rent back to families in Mexico, in
Arizona, in the trailer next door, to Moises’ large
wife in ghetto small apartment El Cajon. While
the fire burned all women complained demanded
and refused to acknowledge efforts. And all
efforts continued regardless. Because saints are
never recognized before death.