My most recent poems are indicative of black market economies that one finds themselves living in from poverty. For three weeks I have been waiting for a check from my Canadian film distributor. I have subsisted on a box of Cheerios and a bag of brown rice during this time.

TOO POOR TO BE POETRY

Thank you for the cigarettes
that saved my life
You didn’t seem to have
that much money yourself
with a new born in your carriage
waiting for a bus
with small change in your purse
If I didn’t know you any better
I’d swear you were the Virgin Mary
Handing out Pall Malls
in some sort of communion
only the true communist
would understand
I will build statues of you
deep inside of this poem
From a poverty of images
too poor to be poetry

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