what you want is
nothing less
than everything

this is not uncommon

the history books are
filled with murdered tyrants
the ground with forgotten

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

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