With their insistence on the impermeable barriers of race, gender and class, these liberal post-modernists keep anyone from saying anything about anything but his own private world. “How dare a white male poet speak for anyone but himself. . . . How can he raise his voice above a self-subverting whisper?”
Because I hate money
as money hates me,
I will out-live my debt
and be buried for free.
My gravest desire:
die poor, with no coffin,
that Death may unharden
what Life could not soften.
Because money hates me
I sometimes hate God,
(though I never served Mammon)
so SHOVEL, you clod,
while I speak from the grave;
a cadaver with class:
come strew a few flowers
and cover my ass.
(Or cover my assets
financially
so my corpse doesn’t lie
like a liability.)
Because money hates me
I’ll leave it to you
to savor my point of
funereal view.
Offended by your victimhood
while victimized by your offense,
you hurt so bad that I felt good;
my guilt was sweet – your pain intense.
I lacked your lack of self-esteem
yet shared your sense of wounded pride
while sleeping through our waking dream –
the Inner Light left on outside.
Your suicide invades my space –
your death insults my lifeless life.
Your omnipresent cryptic face
beams forth, as dull as any knife.
CONNECT/HOOK 