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.


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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