ART COELHO WRITES

"We're Sailing through the Recession"

(for The Have-Nots)

Without stocks
nor bonds
or write-offs
or tax deductable charity organizations
we’re sailing through The Recession—
with an unpaid mortgage
and no money in any banks
or a pension
or an I.R.A;
but with flying colors
we live as good as we ever did
by scraping by
car pooling
canning fruits and vegetables
by not affording a car payment
and no family business;
with credit card debt galore
and yet our neighbors are crying
about not being able to retire now,
or go to Mexico every year with the kids on spring break—
because without investments
we dream not beyond slim pickens—
and just like the magpies in the alley
that are agreeable to our laughter
over small matters like
never having to worry about having money
or luxury
or a new car, VCRs’, Cadillac sofas, high-definition TV, RVs’—
we still sleep in a tent,
rough it ‘cause roughing it is all we have…
the grit to carry on
with hernia at work
with a job that you never know for sure will be stable
or where the work will be tomorrow,
old boss and more bosses thrown in
as financial situation worsens.
Still, it’s not the overhead we’re worried about,
it’s trying to keep the impossible at arms length-
the abstracting out the Minimum Wage blues
and keeping everything else away that stinks.
And when you have to lie to yourself to keep cookie jar safe,
this microscopic nest egg you’ve horded
or you’d literally starve to death otherwise.
And there’s the so-called dream-money euphuism
as winter sets in and hours are cut back,
as summer hope dwindles away into every bare necessity:
screw the vacation to British Columbia
and open up a can of pork and beans.
I mean without a gravy train
we are like hobos in a jungle,
we start our simple fire
get warm by it
keep the heat bills frugal
(don’t run heat at night
when the temperature is above zero),
and because of the love we have for each other
because poverty teaches
wisdom to the poor
and to the low-definition hungry;
and the blessing is
we’re alive,
not bent out of shape like the others
who had these unreal expectations—
it’s like they think they earned the right to a full belly
kids teeth straightened,
doctor bills paid on time,
American Dream never going tits up,
but life isn’t like that;
you might have your luck bank in tact(fat chance):
it too shines like the sun at times
but the gray is coming with
no health insurance,
the stock market crumbling your ass to its knees;
you better learn to expect it to throw you some curves
some sinkerballs of huge doom shadowing
you never thought possible before,
and leave you high and dry
to pound sand down a rat hole
when things seem unseemly bleak to you.
The only bargain we’ve made
is to keep our heads above water,
loftiness a foreign word,
to keep our dreams from sinking—
and what are poor people’s dreams?
It’s bouncing grandchildren on their knees
that costs nothing
and gives everything;
it’s friends you can count on
when the government’s out of tune,
when bail out money ends up in ruins,
the economy on the blink—
when Fort Knox has lost its dollar sign mesmerizations,
and when CEO’s are on the make
in catastrophe’s wake.
And what do we care
when we have simple pleasures:
a walk along the river,
mountains that know more than us
and share that knowledge
because time is free
when you’re living right
and cutting poverty’s fat hog in the ass.
You can have it all
if essence is your handle
and reality is always naked for a good reason;
and if I had one season to brag on
it’d be the artist’s fact
of blank canvases to fill,
poetry to write,
and stories needing to be told;
and some young person’s wedding bells ringing
and tadpoles in spring for a child’s eyes
and all the gifts that can’t be bought
and all the traveling you can do in your mind
when God starts his fortune telling
and Jesus knows too that snake eyes
will pass and fruit will be plentiful again
and so we take those steps knowing
to be grateful, glad, treasure the moment
like it’s a T-bone steak, a trip to Rio,
a gal that’s willing and the charm to go with it—
‘cause it ain’t a completely sandy desert hopeless time;
it’s time to pass the red wine,
and we’ll have a party
to cheer those less fortunate than us
(and when we price things to single mothers
they’ll get a good discount,
old people on fixed incomes
THE PRICE REMAINS THE SAME,
people who have to drive long distances
with high gas prices will pay less for services)
till the bad times lessen
and the thanksgivings quicken—
till we slide home without bruises
and job-loss lacerations,
till the gravy bowl returns
and we do double back flip grins
to wash it down with
come morning,
come hell or high water
till our feet are on solid ground again.

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Seven Buffaloes Press
Art Coelho, Ed. & Pub.
Box 249
Big Timber, Montana 59011

Individual authors & anthology formats. Free catalogue. Art's Fine Art. Three color prints available: Horsepower, Gossip & The Portuguese Windmills. Visual image will be sent: artcoelho@cablemt.net