Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
[email protected]

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

So much time
So little to do
It's cozy on the curb
In a big green bag

Days pass
And I rot
Stinking in the sun
Waiting to be collected


Waiting for the trashman

Life is a big ball of yarn.
Each passing second being
braided into the past,
the present being set in
stone and the future
keeps changing.

I feel my body turning into
dust. Instead of just
floating in the life I've
been given, the yarn
pulls strands of my hair,
pulls dead skin off my
pillow. It pulls my tears
and drops of blood away.
It moves bits and pieces
of me into history.
I feel myself decaying.

They no longer know
who I am. I feel
like saying, "People change
when they know they're
dying."

The world becomes black
and white and clouds
are shadows. Lights become
the sun and the sun
is just another
rotting planet.
    The world is decaying.
    Trees all dead, leaning with
    leaves made of dead skin.
    All the yellow dandelions
    higher than the stoner downstairs.
    The white weeds don't have
    seeds. Just acid leaking
    out of them and the
    smoke we breath out reeks
    of lost hope and dead
    promises.

Do not ask me why
I reply so slowly.
It's because honestly
nobody speaks loudly
enough for me to hear
over the screaming
of people drowning in my
stomach acid.

    I can see his shadow
even in the dark.
The demon not with
horns or fangs.
No tail, his reflection
shows and pictures can
be taken.
    Just another twisted
    thought inside my mind.

I feel his arsenic breath
get closer with each passing
day.
    He will not leave me
alone until he can tie my
phalanges together. Have
a crown of my broken
bones to show that he is
the king of my skeleton.

    I feel him inside my
skin crawling, faster than
my slowing heart beat. He
survives in my battery
acid blood. He thrives
off my scorched insides.
You see hell is his home.
He's at peace with death.
    His mind is twisted more
than my body when
    he ****** me.

He demanded a queen but
when he got a servant
he took advantage of my
calloused hands and bruised
mind.
    You see this man
    was no king.
    Just a black market
    dealer
      who didn't know how
      to keep his hands off
      of the merchandise.

   He never had any customers
   but broken girls.
   So when I was whole
   he was intrigued.
     I was a box
     he took everything out.
     Broke me down,
     laughed as the trashman
     took me to next town.

The Christmas lights have all been taken down and put away.
The chilly night is poorer for their loss.
The rain that couldn’t bother to be snow on Christmas Eve
Now lurks behind the clouds that hide the stars we never see
And wouldn’t know the names of, if we did.

The gifts have been exchanged for sizes that will fit
Except the one with blood on it that must be thrown away.
The thank you notes have all gone out to people far away
Who love us more than those next door who say the words
But hide the truth in cloaks of duty and necessity.

The paper hats and party horns were taken by the trashman yesterday
While we write elevens in our checkbook for the year
And contemplate the quicksand that encompasses the wall
We have no ladder tall enough to climb, or transport
That can whisk us to a top that’s not in sight.

Walking tall on stilts of hope, our balance is precarious.
We were not in the Rose parade or even on the sidewalk.
We still can’t see beyond the wall of hate that locks us in
and wobble ever more and more as we pace the perimeter
Looking for a door or gate and finding only bricks and mortar.

ljm