don’t try selling me.

poetry grew out of a personal poverty, an isolated,
confused identity.
not trying to be a corporate entity,
so don’t try selling me (none of yo’ shit on tv)
into state sponsored slavery.

buy, sell, buy me, sell me.

but ain’t got no money or anything of value,
but notebooks and ideas.
guess, i’m closed for transactions.

pray the stock market don’t crash.

hope your stock doesn’t drop,
(please, don’t invest in me)
and that your credit card don’t bounce,
so that the check still goes through.

seems such a trap, only working for money
to buy all the things that everyone’s selling.
label me lazy, but rather be here, sleeping.

11.13.02.