(Or: “Choenix for a Denarius”)

You know
I’m not on social media but
yeah to the extent I am, this is pretty much it–
Antisocial Media, and milk spilled straight from the spleen.

In the hot siesta I dreamed so hard
(revelations 6)
about an act of secondhand charity
that seemed to say everything. It was

an urn, for coffee with cremation.
As I would too in the Awakening
I refused the shipment
with big red angry letters

Written in my soul from me to you.

For an individual, the poverty threshold (a much prettier word than line, thanks guv) is $15,060.

The latest available Census Bureau data (2021) says 11.6% of Americans live at or below it.

‘Live’ here exists as a statistical category somewhere between still-breathing and thriving.

Don’t worry too much about the Detailed Science.

Like the inflation rate, these kind of horn-rimmed numbers are carefully baked half-truths even when it isn’t an election year.

Margot fucks up the lyrics a little Like One Of Your French Girls will sometimes.

Root beer. Right. For the making of your big black cow and the getting out of here.

When I woke up it was raining hard at last.

So let’s open our hymnals
for tis a gift to be simple
and free
and close with them right and plain

Hosanna.

I lived with them on Jovial Street
In a basement down the stairs
There was music in the cafés at night
And revolution in the air

Then he started into dealing with slaves
And something inside of him died
She had to sell everything she owned
And froze up inside

And when finally the bottom fell out
I became withdrawn
The only thing I knew how to do
Was to keep on keepin’ on like a bird that flew …

So now I’m goin’ back again
I gotta get to Her somehow
All the people we used to know
They’re an illusion to me now

Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenters’ wives
Don’t know how it all got started
I don’t know what they do with their lives

Me, I’m still on the road
Headin’ for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point

of view.
Tangled up in blue