Joe Blow

There is less and less space or opportunity

beneath the foggy firmament to live.

Every day buildings swell and fatten.

The familiar ones, the buildings

that line the street where Joe Blow works,

they grow slower than the rest,

but they still grow.



The streets where Joe drives are stretching

longer everyday, their greyness

a dark streak in him, going on and on at night.

They go on and on into nothing,

into nowhere, into rain,

thriving as living things.



Joe can stand at the gas pump and fill

his tank, but there seems to be no end

to the fuel he fucks into his car.

It goes on and on like the rain

that knuckles his windshield

that he slaps at with wipers

that slice on and on.



The drive lasts forever until

somehow he makes it there to work,

and in the parking lot

black and vastness greet him.

Rows of cars go on and on,

and there is nothing remotely

natural anywhere near him.

This is when Joe must remind

himself to breathe.