the poverty poem

as if, when
    moonlight burns...
      you get the idea.
we can't get any
more. somnolent
    coincidences,
 like scraping air.
       did we care any
more? i said
how i feel about you
in a million ways.
    all you want
        is to hear
four letter words.

god is a bad word, by the way.

the everlasting burden
of the thinking man,
    to believe in poetry.
how lost i must feel.
    to be smart
and unappealing.
poetry is one letter away
        from poverty.

it pays to be mild mannered sometimes.

it gets into the darkness
behind the skin.
frail and lightless,
    weighed down
by curtains. a foreshadowing.
        can you feel?
if i ask, then i don't need to know.
we all want
to be left to our petty vices.
    crack whores
    for cheap affections.

we live in an age of indifference.

i am left to my own meaning.
    as if, moonlight
burns. when it's slow
and ugly.
a cumbersome crawl,
    lazy light getting nowhere.
that's my excuse from now on.
    i forgot my shadow.
    it crept back
into its source. deep
inside, a smolder.
    soon i will sing.
you show me the dance steps.
it can make a difference.

bartender, an epitaph, please.