To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
and glad to have
in the morning
they're out there
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
of your eyes.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.
(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance as long as forever is.
these things that we support most well
have nothing to do with up,
and we do with them
out of boredom or fear or money
or cracked intelligence;
our circle and our candle of light
so small we cannot bear it,
we heave out with Idea
and lose the Center:
all wax without the wick,
and we see names that once meant
like signs into ghost towns,
and only the graves are real.
Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
who flung it away in
Van, whores don't want
I guess that's why you were
such a great
YOUR western heads here cast on money,
You are the two that fade away together,
Partners in the mist.
Lunging buffalo shoulder,
Lean Indian face,
We who come after where you are gone
Salute your forms on the new nickel.
On the prairie:
pauses comerapid doubts
Where have you gone
with your confident
your crooked smile
why did you leave
when you took your
are you aware that
went the sun
and what few stars
where have you gone
with your confident
crooked smile the
in one pocket and
in another . . .
This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard
Brautigan in a laundromat in San Francisco.
The author is unknown.
By accident, you put
Your money in my
By accident, I put
My money in another
On purpose, I put
Your clothes in the
Empty machine full
Of water and no
It was lonely.
When all birds else do of their music fail,
Money's the still-sweet-singing nightingale!
? ON A ROBBERY.
RIDWAY robb'd DUNCOTE of three hundred pound,
Ridway was ta'en, arraign'd, condemn'd to die ;
But, for this money, was a courtier found,
Begg'd Ridway's pardon : Duncote now doth cry,
Robb'd both of money, and the law's relief,
? The courtier is become the greater thief.
There was an Old Man of Kilkenny,
Who never had more than a penny;
He spent all that money in onions and honey,
That wayward Old Man of Kilkenny.
Edgar Lee Masters
I never saw any difference
Between playing cards for money
And selling real estate,
Practicing law, banking, or anything else.
For everything is chance.
Seest thou a man diligent in business?
He shall stand before Kings!
For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced tribes
And cobble-close families
In mill-towns on dark mornings
Life is slow dying.
So are their separate ways
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and money
Ways of slow dying.
The day spent hunting pig
Or holding a garden-party,
Hours giving evidence
Or birth, advance
On death equally slowly.
And saying so to some
Means nothing; others it leaves
Nothing to be said.
Ask not the chances of the time to be,
And for the past, 'tis vanished, as you see;
This ready-money breath set down as gain,
Future and past concern not you or me.
Outside the long window,
With his head on the stone sill,
The dog is lying,
Gazing at his Beloved.
His eyes are wet and urgent,
And his body is taut and shaking.
It is cold on the terrace;
A pale wind licks along the stone slabs,
But the dog gazes through the glass
And is content.
The Beloved is writing a letter.
Occasionally she speaks to the dog,
But she is thinking of her writing.
Does she, too, give her devotion to one
I AM a copper wire slung in the air,
Slim against the sun I make not even a clear line of shadow.
Night and day I keep singing--humming and thrumming:
It is love and war and money; it is the fighting and the
tears, the work and want,
Death and laughter of men and women passing through
me, carrier of your speech,
In the rain and the wet dripping, in the dawn and the
A copper wire.
I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night,
With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress
And walk for money, looking miserable!
Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess,
The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight---
You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
Villain shows his indiscretion,
Villain's partner makes confession.
Juvenile, with golden tresses,
Finds her pa and dons long dresses.
Scapegrace comes home money-laden,
Hero comforts tearful maiden,
Soubrette marries loyal chappie,
Villain skips, and all are happy.
King of the perennial holly-groves, the riven sandstone: overlord of the
M5: architect of the historic rampart and ditch, the citadel at
Tamworth, the summer hermitage in Holy Cross: guardian of the Welsh
Bridge and the Iron Bridge: contractor to the desirable new estates:
saltmaster: money-changer: commissioner for oaths: martyrologist: the
friend of Charlemagne.
'I liked that,' said Offa, 'sing it again.
If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry old chairs to mend;
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend;
I never would cry old chairs to mend.
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry old clothes to sell;
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell;
I never would cry old clothes to sell.
Some -- Work for Immortality --
The Chiefer part, for Time --
He -- Compensates -- immediately --
The former -- Checks -- on Fame --
Slow Gold -- but Everlasting --
The Bullion of Today --
Contrasted with the Currency
Of Immortality --
A Beggar -- Here and There --
Is gifted to discern
Beyond the Broker's insight --
One's -- Money -- One's -- the Mine -
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry young lambs to sell;
Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell;
I never would cry young lambs to sell.
WHAT you give me, I cheerfully accept,
A little sustenance, a hut and garden, a little money—these, as I rendezvous with my
A traveler’s lodging and breakfast as I journey through The States—Why should I
ashamed to own such gifts? Why to advertise for them?
For I myself am not one who bestows nothing upon man and woman;
For I bestow upon any man or woman the entrance to all the gifts of the universe.
No man such rare parts hath, that he can swim,
If favour or occasion help not him.
"Lend me thy mare to ride a mile.
"She is lamed, leaping over a stile.
"Alack! and I must keep the fair!
I'll give thee money for thy mare.
"Oh, oh! say you so?
Money will make the mare to go!"