does it pay?
does it pay?
They had a thing
called the classified section
at the back of the newspaper,
column after column
with rows and rows of jobs,
subdivided sections
of what you could be,
and then the jobs
with a college degree.
I’d usually skip this section
and turn to the funnies.
But what about the money?
How much of a man’s life
is spent
thinking over how he’s going to pay the rent
while his heart
and his passion
dies in front of him?
Arthur Miller’s DEATH OF A SALESMAN,
a dad,
could, could’ve, might’ve been your own father,
possibly is yourself,
but the stage play works as a warning,
when the hope of a man
is placed on the wrong thing,
life,
becomes a commodity.
Two different variations,
a mid-life crisis
from multiple stations,
a self-taught mechanic
with a broken heart and a beer,
an inherited business owner
with a selfish bent and a whiskey,
one died
and the other lived,
but something remained:
TIME,
and how we spend it
is like a kid
with a hole in his pocket,
it’s not that I don’t like rap music,
but it’s what it represents.
A golden calf that’s worshiped,
Moses came down from the mountain
and said,
“This is no way to live.”
I can stand back and think
that most women like money
more than me,
but if they defined that thought
and knew the difference
between truth and fiction
and what was an actual possibility
I’d realize that this is not true;
they like what money can do for you.
It’s the choices that it gives
the power that it holds
and the ability to live;
men are the same
and more than half the time
we’re the ones to blame;
but it can be
kinda like Halloween candy
and too much of it
that brings a toothache and diarrhea
and the greed
to think that we are the only ones with a need.
But look at me,
reclined at 6AM on a couch
in a place I’d thought I’d never live
having the margin in life to write
time traveling to
wherever my mind takes me,
and after a weekend with
a woman who believes in me,
I might be
the richest man
in the world.