The world is burning
fueled by the guilted poor
a barrel of narcotics and greed
funded by the rich.
Disgusted and beaten by the cracks
in the sidewalks,
he drowns himself in a bottle of honey.
Jack **** can save him now.
He wants to leave.
To float the waves for a few weeks,
the salty grey sky will become his home.
And when it rains he will write fire.
Riots will flood the page
and all will know that art is god,
that money is just paper and cloth
and you can't build a diet off of it.
He wants to leave
but he was born as this.
He raises his head and sees
only death, no life-
life.
the very word is no longer freedom
but bars interlocking the windows
we see from.
He is shaken.
The barstool he fell asleep upon
is flaming with orange.
Calmly he lights the tip of his cigarette
into the sparks
and steps into the cold.