You can be destitute, dressed in rags
But you're a tycoon with pencil and pad
Your office a park bench under the sun
Your income the poem or song yet unsung
Your boardroom the corner of some shopping mall
Where multitudes gather
When you, the writer calls
No microphones needed
Nor fancy backdrops
The words of poetry ring forth
Crowds now do stop
Amazed that a man
Unkempt, dressed in rags
Can bring peace to the masses
And new heart to the sad
All this with no money, just pencil and pad
This poetic  tycoon
Shone in a world so sombre and sad

I lost that Mountain Goats mix tape one night under the influence of Oxycontin and alcohol and beautiful men and a woman I longed to own.
"The only thing I know..." rings in my head every now and then,
reminding me of that van, cluttered, and that voice sort of rapid and quick to make assertions. I heard you say you loved me. You never said it out loud.
Fractal-ed brain seeing so much I cannot. The view must be so different in there.
I imagined (more than once) being used by you in some punk van, with pin point holes and nowhere to go as you disappear... maybe meaning to leave me, maybe not.
"I need four white walls..." and I'm standing in your wife's kitchen holding stolen car keys and sweat.
Feeding me and telling me there would be another side.
I had no ability to see past little white piles of pain.
Even then, you loved me. I was whole to you and sinless. "Goddess."
No need for explanation. I am myself and you are you.


Half of the house stays cold. Capitalism strikes the poor through monopoly of resources. Ages old.
That's what we are.
He and I, transcended, and beaten. Enlightened, and nubile.
I remember that hair tied back with several ties and thinking how silly you were for thinking I could be interested.
I let you have me, over **** hits and more than one bottle of dark liquor and in three days you just had to say, "I love you."
"Don't call me."
I imagined more than once you in my bed and those well-placed tattoos.
Voice like conviction and hope. You wouldn't be the one.
"Don't call my boyfriend looking for drugs."
Fast forward.
"I would **** that guy so hard."
"Am I annoying you?"
Saying those words like a well known drive down a country road:
fast and careless.
It's how I drop bombs, you know? I do that with all the people I love.
I see your struggle. Hold tight the bed sheets in the morning.
Never a fight. Hardly an argument. Submission becomes me. Becomes freedom.

Even now, you love me.
Never judgement. So few expectations.
Who are these extra-terrestrials?
Maybe,
I am one of them.