The wallet is as big as earth and we snuffle, snorkel, lip lap at money's rankest genitals, buried there as money gophers, money worms, hibernate our lives away with heads well up money's asshole, eating, drinking, sleeping there in money's shitty dark. That's money, folks, the perverse love thereof, as if we swam carrying an anchor or the blinders my grandpa's horses wore so that while ploughing they wouldn't notice anything but the furrow ahead, not certainly the infinitely circular horizon of earth. Not the money for food and bed but the endless brown beyond that. I'm even saving up for my past, by god, healing the twelve-hour days in the fields or laying actual concrete blocks. The present passes too quickly to notice and I've never had a grip on the future, even as an idea. As a Pleistocene dunce I want my wife and children to be safe in the past, and then I'll look up from my money-fucking grubbing work to watch the evening shadows fleeing across the green field next door, tethered to these shadows dragging toward night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: SIBYLLA'S DIRGE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE INEVITABLE by SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON ETHELSTAN: RUNILDA'S CHANT by GEORGE DARLEY THE CONFLICT by CECIL DAY LEWIS SONNET UPON HISTORIE OF GEORGE CASTRIOT, ALIAS SCANDERBERG by EDMUND SPENSER INSCRIPTIONS: 2. FOR A STATUE OF CHAUCER AT WOODSTOCK by MARK AKENSIDE |