Prompt: write about money
I was never lacking for the stuff, but now it’s fucking mine,
so I’m hard as a rock and tossing and turning in bed.
Things change overnight– one day you’ve tuned in Arlo Guthrie on your way to the post office
because they keep forgetting your letters,
but you keep forgetting stamps,
symbiotic, really, even though you hate the bastards,
but the next day, the next minute, even, you’re swerving like a manic little fuck into traffic
and there’s nothing on the radio
you’re too busy
Dreaming of Austin, Seattle, fucking Wilmington
frigging Manhattan, goddamned Las fucking Vegas,
the world has decided to let you in again,
I have decided to let myself in again,
and screw my mother for calling last night,
thank you for inquiring, my weight is fine right now, so before I become a corporate fat cat for real
I figure I’ll get some muscles underneath the tender belly I’ve acquired.
There’s always going to be money,
it’s never quite right,
how there will always be money,
money in my pocket,
green in my seams,
quick bullish tactical day trading from my computer before I scribble down a figure in my notebook.
It’s never quite right
how much it scares me when it’s gone.
Good money and good women rarely last as long as you want them to,
but on a bisque-colored day in April I can make it rain.