You might as well have no paper at all
What’s so wrong with me
that if I can’t have all
then I want none
I would rather rake through the filth
than sit above it
with my feet dangling in
Anything fifty is worth zero,
though I’m bad with money
But if it isn’t the pot of gold thenÂ
won’t I be in the same spot I was in
when I was raking the filth?
If I took every fifty thenÂ
I’d start looking for fifties
What does it matter if I don’t want
the between
the space after zero filled with
men buying convertibles only to have
their hats blown off exposing
their bald heads
I’d rather have too much muck
eyeball level shit
than spend a decade shaking mud
off my toes
Living in the middle is likeÂ
wiping your ass and running out
of paper before you’re finished
More poems like this:
Looking for Hazards
Consciously causing unconscious chaos
We Live in Jello
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