this will be a poetry blog, a word bank, where i will deposit the scattered shards of my mind after a hard days swing of the hammer and see what they are worth. see if they are a lottery, a tottering stack disguised black as a pillar with oil paints that i must merely push over with my finger tips like quarters to die in a greasy pile of dollar bills. I tell myself I am wise as I walk into the convenience store. I tell myself at the counter, "this rube." This rube, this broken toothed banker, this hand in the cash drawer. He may have bought a lottery ticket, but not this one. I tell myself that this is an investment. I tell myself that if worth is made with time, so is money. so is me.
but my worth is written on my paycheck, written in my clothes, written in the cut of my hair, the shape of my beard. Written in my cigarette, my blackheads, in my oily skin. Written in the weird lovely calluses on my hands, my open collar, my $20 pants. Written in my face: I am worth a buck an hour, or a multiple of said dollar. Pay me what you will, you pay for nothing but a third of a man. you pay for nothing but a third of a man this day.
