Hobobservations I

Can't afford no mausoleum
for my dropped-out bones
poor as a butt-fuck in the woods
and nerve-dead to the waking
wriggling world of them who do
and in so doing make a buck
and spend a buck and otherwise
postpone death for one more day
one more run at low-priced goods
one more consummating breath
in rooms where new beasts
are bred, old breasts are sucked.

But I love all you wealthy, walking
pods of flesh, your convoluted
matter sitting gray and empty
in your skulls and above your towers
the sun blotted out by clouds
radiates the void to what grand purpose
to what inexplicable design
no one rightly cares or knows.

[c2006jbb]