you are up with a cigarette and a silver grey
sunrise next to the weathered crucifix and it
sits like an itch or like a tightness, like
a bad pair of jeans all around you
no, it sits in the hard place between the eyes
where it always is
the voice that is not, the cup that is not
full
the the fool that will never have enough
who wonders how this could be enough for anyone
desire and discontent and then
you know this is what sent you here
that you don't understand how so many people could be
settle for so little
you dont mean to mettle and you don't mean
love with so little, or rejoice in so little
that's simplicity
what you see is everyone selling
a birthright for a pot of beans
and because beans is all the world has
to proffer
you turn your back from the offer, light a cigarette
and drink your coffee, you unshaven, at a time this early,
eyes a little hazy
and that's why they call you crazy