what you want is
nothing less
than everything
this is not uncommon
the history books are
filled with murdered tyrants
the ground with forgotten
suicides
i sit at this desk
too often
obsessing over unpaid bills
i lose sleep
i yell at the baby
i watch my right hand
chop off the left
there is the day job
and the night job
and my pocket full of change
for the pay phone
i am the voice my wife
hates to hear through
fifteen miles of wire
the man my friends
speak badly of
i have no use for poets
for poetry
or for the bones dug up by
beaten dogs
anger is a fuel
and self-pity a drug
but this you already knew
if there is money
to be made in selling
your fear
i will do it
nothing is so dirty it
can never be spent
