meditation retreat

folded up in the car outside
the elite grocery
listening to the
jazz station

i’m holding out for
the parking police
and feeling finished
with the long labor summer

the rain
over the windows
gloves, hats, receipts
on the dash like autumn cool

my gas stations

in good times i’m a
cardinal of contamination
i’m the pope of candy rope

oh sacred pure morning
the sun can’t dawn for first shift
fear not in this man’s world
a beverage case awaits—
the curve of a bagged pastry

razor knives, sunglasses, synth hash
a limited selection of fine workwear
for the aging hustler treading pellegrino

every nicotine parking stand showpiece
every pump pimp neo orthodox
americana like christmas shims
on a dropped hearse

zoo crew afternoon

if somebody has the energy for a joke
and nobody dies
that’s an eternal rite of construction
you better fuckin laugh homie

if someone moves off the job
if their tools go without their boots
you better fucking cry homie
you better hug your family

that’s how you retire
from everything or

move on quiet to
a cherry mob job

outside boyz

out here in the rain
of the early morning
nobody’s sure
what we’re meant to lift

why be out here, getting old
in this cold shanty on broken soil
with just the money and a calm

if we get dirty or wet or tired
and nobody’s too pleased or put out
that’s honest work for an outside guy

{farewell}

rain dogs come home
to a carnival in the holiday yards
huge packages to swing, trucks arriving
night and day

great white nylon tents with warm
benches and admin stores of
finest kroger bars and stale donuts

cardboards of burnt coffee—
a hint about the pizza party gone right
at the end of his rainbow
inside crew in the twilight carpentry years—

doors, windows, base and built-ins
clown makeup, white trucks
liquor in a thermos, classic rock

god’s backlot

online atheism is bull
like sure ok i guess the
universe holds no mystery
no grace no faith
for some people
let’s call them neurotics

if you do it right
religion can alert you
to a great deal of moral hazard

there are wars over gods of course
but holding tools of history
in the dark woods beyond today

every honest hand turns up
to the same blue sky

Erik Stinson is a writer and carpenter from Seattle. In 2016 he released a book of poetry called Microaggressions. He edited Sense Europa, Perfect Magazine and HTML Giant.