I live in a trailer park,
beyond a decade now.

I suppose outside of here,
they're called "mobile" parks.
Here, they're trailer parks.

There is a trailer hitch,
but that ain't pulling this ***** nowhere,
no-how.

Trailers in Juneau, Alaska stand crookedly rectangular,
with a 60s/70s "I wasn't built for this ****" tiredness.

Rust, moss, fungus, dirt, cat ****:
dilapidation,
all common traits to the TP kingdom.

These are rhomboids with a forceful will
to be real homes, on steel beds with wheels,
propped up on cinder blocks, ambition, and dreams.

Modifications and additions have been nailed, and *******,
and glued and affixed in every possible manner conceivable.
An 8x4 plywood laid on a tarp to stop a leak is not a repair, but an
improvement.

These improvements make the mobile into a trailer,
flirting with that trophy ***** ******* called home.

No disrespect.

Expensive, alluring, pay-as-you can,
home ****. They'll take you for all your
worth. And smile. And so will you.

Real people **** and make love here.
They die of cancer,
go through pregnancy,
pick their nose,
do math homework,
*******,
write poetry,
*******,
do ****,
mow lawns,
hold children hostage,
make coffee,
help their neighbors,
go to vote,
make art,
***** their neighbors,
dream.

They slide their backs down the walls
of their homes in bouts of sorrow,
turning their guts into fistfuls of rocks
and despair. Heaving out their regrets
in spit and snot and fury.

They all live here.
And so do I.

We are walking toward Mendenhall Glacier,
it's 15 degrees Fahrenheit, or so,
there is an inch of dry sandy snow
atop the lake's frozen face,
it creaks under our feet, like a wooden boat.

the sky is blank-blue
the sun is washing the snow, ice, and mountains
in blinding white and shadows

our Ophelia has questions about the ice.

"what will happen when the ice is gone?"
I dig my brain, inside myself,
I don't really know.

my instinct is toward the material,
the tangible, like my wife:

"we won't be able to see the glacier
from here anymore."

Ophelia turns this for a beat,
"Does the ice get smaller?"
"yep"

It does.
Where does it go?
It melts.
Where does it go?
It flows in rivers to lakes and the ocean.

I churn inside myself
how much does a 7 year old need to know?
how much do I actually know?

the sun bleaches the colors of the world,
the ancient ice glows an ethereal blue,
the mountains tower their power.

I think of the end,
of all of this,
to all of this.

Later,
we eat
a hamburger and French fries.

There is a certain beauty in it.

The spider-web bridges across
a watery milk chocolate gateway,
churning rust water, as steel ships
glide through the slick like drones.

The metallic twists and turns of
silver pipes crisscross across
roadways and itself, creating
apocalyptic silver castles and causeways
of itself.

The fog and clouds caress
every visual body, a seductive clinging,
like a cheating spouse's tongue.

The hum and clang of forgotten
promises rumble the earth.
And we are afraid.

Perhaps it's not beauty,
maybe, an aesthetic:

Apocalyptic Industrialization

a Columbine flower,
a blazing reddish orange thing,
with heart of yellow,
a clustered tendril thing,
a green stem, impossibly thin,
springing from gray rocks

they
shiver, dance, and bow
to the will of the wind’s
mood

unlike its siblings and cousins
the Columbine
stares downward
earthward

not to the heavens
but hellwards

a lonely band of
rainbow

a tired, knowing flower,
among the forget-me-nots

how like the Columbine
i feel

a shadow
with a need
needles me
each day
each hour

until sleep

the shadow is me
on the side of seeing
the gray edges of myself

another drink

smooth the jagged edges
of moonlit realities

i'll be better

tomorrow

i banged a goldfish

we, both, were paralyzed

in the end

for different reasons

I have a young one
and an old one
they are four and nine
respectively

one night, the young one
expressed her love for me
with her hands

the first was for her mother
her arms stretched obtusely,
for me, they were acute

she was honest

I cried.

the older one
brought me water

We went to sleep.