It’s the end of August and we are
Low on money
Like the last summer
And the summer before that
It never ends…
It’s always like this
It will be always like this
Not exactly poverty but
A chronic lack of money,
A need to economize,
To watch your spending,
Cutting down on smoke and some food; all booze is out
Forget about clothes,
Shoes,
Socks,
Movies,
Books,
Going out,
Picnics,
Bus rides.
Hand lotion.
Pizzas,
Phone calls,
You name it…
It gets you
Year after year:
Not exactly poverty–
Just a lack of money.
And here I am,
Writing poetry.
Who gives a damn about poetry?
Yet
I persevere,
While
We economize,
Watch our spending,
Plan carefully.
Well,
At least I
Don’t have to economize
On words:
There are plenty of them
Absolutely free of charge.
I’m glad that
Writing doesn’t require much
Neither special investments nor
Expensive supplies
Just something to write on:
A piece of paper,
An old notebook.
An empty cartoon pack,
A wall,
Your skin,
My own bare ass:
In short,
Anything to scribble on.
Plus
A lot of madness
To make it
A bit more INTERESTING.
October 28th, 2007 at 11:04 pm
I love this poem. Great stuff. I know I’ve got to be a little bit technical in my comments so; i felt apart of its fluidity, like a flow of one thought into the next connection, I was totally there with it. I loved when you mentioned ‘here I am writing poetry’, f……. A! What else is there. I think that was the hi light. Because you were sereal, you stepped outside the poem to see yourself writing it. Chur. Wikard. 10 points sis/bro.