cash is the root of a roof

if the money is good
the roof isn't made out of
glass

if the money isn't so
good then you have to share
a roof with people
you love, but think
you're a worthless bum
that needs to get off his ass
and get a job.

the second Coors light goes down
with heart burn and i wonder
if the depression is a view of
my sociological research

self-pity has no room
in the outcome of ambition
or the end goal of the world point
of view

in God's ideal world
we'd own nothing
but our hearts and
give only the love
of our actions


here on earth a bum approached
me for spare change
I handed him 40 cents, my last 40 cents
and i couldn't pay for dinner
but someone who loves me
kept my belly warm
and grace is seen when
we strip down the
riches of comfort.

crisis the
world is in a crisis
I see it not.
we're in a renewal of faith

if I lackluster its because I only see whitewalls

today i read
yesterday i drank

today I hear things
yesterday was yelling

today I'll drink to forget the horror
yesterday I had hope

today is what will become
yesterday was as if the same.

today a toad hops
yesterday a worm wiggled

today the birds play along
yesterday my cat scratched my leg

today is for lovers
yesterday was solitude

today I'll be nothing more than yesterday
yesterday I was believed to be what makes the future today

as it turned out I am
a mixture of gin
and half juice and a promise
of yesterday was broken today

dirty oils on skin

upstairs lives noise
and the TV is watching

upstairs he doesn't sleep
he's a widow

upstairs the chuckle
is alone

upstairs the roof
is all but held together

down here i can't
sleep the thoughts
of retreat haunt
me

down here
i feel captive to hunger
and a slave to sound

down here
the willows sing
of sad sneezes
and coughing
night

upstairs the light is
always on
the children are neglected
and the price for
home is not as the plan goes

haven't showered in days and the way
my luck has it
all wake up in the shower
not knowing how i got there

but feeling absolutely cleansed

glass golden with piss warm wine

blood in the stool

drinking has its privileges

warm wine willows would

blow bottle-tops below lips

the hands switch off the glass
the tongue slurs
and the women lose grip
the clouds cold the front
of the fresh air from my view
each day is worth a wine glass
each day is worth a gulp
each day is worth the
salt in a water so vast

its called an ocean and
the only one who knew the
past secrets of the water
was the drunk

the drunk can swim in the depths
the drunk can wake up and get drunk with glory
as we age some of us drink wine and act civilized

I say

"fuck civilization"

FRIENDS WITH TITLES

we seem to dictate titles to each other

and glorify the mundane

the purple rooster chokes

the looser quotes the newspaper
for his sense of intellectual esteem
and the poet laughs

chuckles a so-what-does-the-trivial
want from death?

the grim critic is the soul within

and the looker of youth is old and ratted
with the lock of love in their hair and the
air is brisk as the rain pelts the tree fig
into dirt and the winter flush face of cold mornings
make the covers a fire place

the title
is the glory of high school reunion
and the bum never makes it back
and the time is a joking matter of luck and
facts get blown out into a place where dreams swallow
the last bit of cheese

titles
make women more viable to sleep with
and the title of the spirit is charming to the holy
but for the famous its a laughing stock
and the willing of poor men that need the money
would say anything for the fame
but the bum wills for a title of drunkard
piss stained smell of nothing and the


last thing men will talk about of the dead is

the human aspects we never lived up to

a title
a saint
a
halo of a man

AM VS PRO

the look it takes
to feel control
isn't the same as
the rest
+++++++++++
the NEWS is told as legend
and the legend isn't much of new

as of late the inexperienced seem
to make headlines

_________I remember when two people met
and made a child and then their dreams faded
and they placed those dreams in their child's eyes but the same
blood pumps through them...

I remember the dream distilled in a bottle of jack Daniels
and the night the burn was numb and the hopes were high
then we too met that someone


and our dream faded into children's eyes

the Professionals know
the way is lonely

the Amateurs know the way is
lonely

the child knows only the dream pumping through their blood
till life wanes

and the next child is born


be a professional and keep the children in the sack and the love cold
and the heart stone

and you might not
know love but you'll know
the dream and the possibility
of a world filled------------ with lonely hope
and an heart filled with indecision's
as the same blood is torn from your family tree to make
a dream accomplished, but never passed.