Old Cocoanuts

Old Cocoanuts (This was originally published on the website: http://www.greylodge.com/)

People wander empty streets like old hobos looking for a freight train to get them home. Empty individualism blends together, like meaningless words fused together in a poem.

Holidays lay strewn like the clothes you slept in last night. Same old stories, same old fights, about how everything becomes nothing with an Easter basket full of blight.

Mumbling on meandering means not who you slept with or with what broad with whom you did score.

Weep upon the incantations of a minister who makes promises and bottoms up empty like a holy criminal pimping for a religious whore.

Getting old is getting old like the ringing cell phones inside purses and coat pockets who cannot survive in this world all on their own.

It’s tough enough scraping together cash for a steaming cuppa of plain pekoe tea. As a member of the working poor, I abhor the movement of the upper-class rich, who dine with cigarettes and cell phones within reach. Believe me; the rich got more money dripping from their pockets, than from the average honeycomb of the average bumblebee.

The rich got a racket going. In days of old, you never had to pay for a spread on your toast or bread.

You’ll never find single women wearing long-brimmed hats with flowers in corporate coffee shops reading Anais Nin or writing poems. On the other hand, you will find homeless men in dirty overcoats, who pretend the place is a library and “borrow” books for free.

The body is a temple, so please give it a rest. Be happy with what you are given and try not to enhance your image just so you can look better than the best

The rich, well, they milk their habits like a cow that’s been pumped from a little too much. They throw their money in the trash, like it means nothing.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Money is money as long as it is well-spent on trinkets, vacations, food never eaten, and fur skin coats collecting mothballs on a rack in some abandoned warehouse.

Looking out over the railing, I watch a little speck of dust just floating. A piece of dust carries nothing, as it floats with ease in mid-air. The rich think of nothing of flaunting big bucks for their cars, their clothes and their mutant wares.

I wake up in my bed every morning, so refreshed and reborn.

The rich pay and pay to keep themselves gay, to prove that money indeed buys them happiness, like old coconuts fallen from a palm tree, always wanting more.