Monday, February 19, 2007

Poetry By Frank Walsh

I’m the gas man
when the poor catch
me in the hood midst
winter dial at full
force and the baby
food gone cold in
it’s baby bowl they
have a cow
or else they forget
about the security fence
come to their senses
and kiss my ass.
I’m the gas man I
control the vertical, I
control the horizontal
there’s nothing wrong
with this picture
if you foot the bill
do not adjust
the noose around
your neck or even
think about the leg
irons you’re fine by
my book, it’s every
body else who’s fucked.
Nothing to do with you
I know after all
I am the gasman
there are no leaks
in my house and I keep
the home fires burning
a nice steady blue flame
balloons for the souls
of the poor in myname
if there were a god
the goose bumped crows
of the fumes and all that jazz
you might have some
say there would
be some other way
but I’m the gas man
at the bottom of
the stairs a mask
on my face to keep
my identity hid
and the hidden costs
coughing up cold cash
and stink of the first
sign of trouble
pushed off on you
by order of the gas
works, the board
on the golf course
in Barbados or Cancun
shake from stem to stern
with a laughter
that doesn’t last unless
at somebody else’s expense
it’s the house that’s rent
in halves and halve not
and red valves under
the floor parquet
slap on a sticker
The water’s either hot
or worked over the choice is all
yours or yours alone
take off your clothes, disrobe
under eye lashes of the meter
and the gag order of the needles
we’re not gonna give
you a bath
no body gets off the hook
that easy, there’s a red line,
red lined rag tag gas giant
in the cards and your it, buddy.
Why don’t you have
a nice shower
in our
company sponsored
double chin and get
more chillin’ to pray
down the line for
a better, a balmy day.

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