because i have been a

	dumpster hunter
	dumpster diver
	garbage hound

because treasure is in the eye of
the beholder.

because Cigarette Advertising stands,
bright blue and red
American colored metal stands
made to hold signs,
were really campchairs in disguise
made to hold people,

or, better yet,

a staging device for
Nuclear Sam,
our scare crow, our spare crow,
made of cast off 
and reclaimed
Levi's
Shades
Bandana
and the skull of a coyote;
because where life is spare, even the coyotes and crows survive.

But surviving is not enough. People deserve to thrive.

So I wore my high heel patent leather pumps,
my little red sweater skirt set,
as I dived and dug among the remnants,
the rubbish,
the cast off,
as I had become
in the eyes of those people who throw treasures away.

Performance art
feeds the shaken soul
and reminds us we are beautiful 
and bountiful,
when people say we're trash.
As beautiful
as the wilted pansies
Daniel rescued 
from the green and grungy dumpster
of a major 
Corporate Grocery Store;
(rescued before the lids clanged shut,
pads locked,
so poor people should not feed
even on precious crumbs,)
As beautiful as 
stolen garbage pansies
coming back to life
in the middle of a burned out forest;
our refuge;
our home;
our rock and pansy garden
built for my birthday,
behind the white bridge.

too late for the roses
too late
for the show
oh yes too many words for the
joker
and no pointy hat
no multicolored vest for the
clown with his smile painted on
no free will
except for the
interpretation
and you there
you with your dreams of
multicolored flowers leading
up to
leading into
nothing other than
hope,
you there can take the measure of your dreams
in beauty itself
and hold your head
up
high

In the snow laden
    lands of lost thoughts
A village standing alone
     on the banks of a wide river
Snow thick on the ice
A landscape of pristine white
Smoke curling upwards
     from wood stoves
In an embrace of life
    as it used to be
When people were of
       the village
And life was simple pleasures

Crumbling houses
     and a memorial
Broken to the glorious fallen
    now forgotten
  Empty stores
The bookstore, the baker,
       the potter, the hairdresser
All gone to the city
        or oblivion

As the melting snow
      falls from an iron roof
And the old people
    recount the tales
Of olden days
     and old religion
Revolutions and starvation
And times swimming
    in the river
A summer's day
 And the last village
Slowly decaying
     into memories