Industry following the smell of beer
& the migration of house insects.

Good old boys transplanted
from Jersey City, four wheel drivers
raising a bitter dust, pick up trucks
loaded with bricks & lumber,
they scratch out fresh roads,
paving a path for mom's humvee,

dowsing chemical-laden water
deep in the geologic layer cake
of ancient Cosa Nostra graveyards

While we eat frozen fish,
deep-fried lawyers are laughing
through a Caribbean January,
sucking unpollutted oysters,
fucking whores up the ass
as they dream of subdivisions.

They know all we want is a warm place
to eat & shit, so they build us
outhouses of aluminum siding
planted in some politician’s pasture,
disguised as Tinkerbell’s Castle.

The cornfield has been replaced
with us, the farmer’s ripe daughter
has packed her punchline & split.


© Robert Rixon
Murder is my Music