A Collection About Poverty
more pieces out of RAGING MEDITATIONS; a chapbook, rejected, unpublished.
to chicken
an ode to rotisserie chicken, written in poverty, 2020
a poor young man’s chicken and rice,
is a sign of life.
strife is a steaming paper plate of white rice,
and store-bought rotisserie chicken,
twice-a-day,
everyday,
for a week straight.
smiling at you,
you plate of chicken.
there for me every night.
i just can’t wait,
oh, i just can’t wait,
to never see you again.
one day, maybe i’ll be a rich man.
rotisserie chicken
an ode to rotisserie chicken, written in poverty, 2023
stomach grumbles.
isn’t this familiar?
i’m thinking about my old friend.
living in the bed of that ’99 Toyota 4Runner...
who was i then?
am i happier now?
it was winter,
and i would pile all my clothes,
on my half-naked body,
to keep from cold.
i’d wake,
make breakfast on a camping stove,
rice and eggs.
i’d spend my days,
wishing to be out of the car,
and spend my nights,
eating rotisserie chicken,
right out of the container.
i don’t know if these days are better,
worrying about,
all the things,
i didn’t worry about before.
i don’t know.
i’m just fucking hungry.
remembering you,
old friend,
rotisserie chicken.
poverty
it’s really quite simple:
so you spend money you don’t have,
just to make it one more day.
if only for a chance,
to make the money you need for next month.
then,
you spend that money,
and you’re broke again...
so you spend money you don’t have,
just to make it one more day.
if only for a chance,
to make the money you need for next month...
then,
you spend that money,
and you’re broke again...
so---
and on, and on, and on.
at least i still have my---
dignity
spare me the half-baked thoughts
from a pseudo-revolutionary.
it’s not en vogue to write about
the uprising of the lower class anymore.
the lower class rises every day,
overpays for mass-produced,
quality-controlled chain coffee,
and finds themselves terminally online,
begging,
oftentimes subconsciously,
to be seen,
to be heard,
noticed by everyone,
or anyone,
pleading for the same thing.
we’re all just trying to poke our heads
up above tall grass,
growing far too fast.
i have no room to critique or scrutinize.
i am no philosopher.
i don’t have the class,
or raging hubris,
to be categorized as such.
i don’t think philosophers jerk off as much as i do.
no, they, you see, must have much more...
dignity.
another piece about being fucking broke
i remember nights in my car,
dark and foggy,
any semblance of a stable future,
murky from this distance.
there was a Wendy’s,
and a movie theater in the same lot.
Regal Perimeter Point, Atlanta, GA.
i took my mom there once.
she had no idea,
how many nights i had slept in that lot.
i was eighteen.
it was fun back then,
it was camping.
now,
it’s not so fun being poor.
i’m rich with all the bills that added up,
out of fucking nowhere.
at least i’ve got a bedroom,
but i’d trade it for the fun.
any semblance of a stable future,
murky from this distance.
for all the good,
perspective can do for you,
sometimes it can let you know,
just how bad you’re doing.
what’s left
rent is due soon.
it always lands on Tuesdays,
fuck Tuesdays.
then the other bills will come.
and others.
and then,
somewhere along the line,
i’ll be dead.
and what will be left,
but a paper trail of bills,
and other similar invoices.
from above a plate of eggs and rice,
TCB