In yawn of day I shrug in sour sweat;
this task is toil, try hard to pose grin fake.
I mean to drag and steal myself a fête,
a swerve hard turn to stir old dreams awake
and find inside the balls to shed green bills,
suave suit and tie for black and tarry streets.
Biped hobo on fool Beat Quest for thrills
not found in house or home. Plenty to eat:
roadkill carcass, let’s dive for Dumpster feast,
enact mystic rice bowl. Midday I pray
for stack even suitcase of books. At least
at last on top of hill of grass to play
a king, or nap, or breathe in deep. I’ve got
here Nirvana-steel nerves—the Boss can rot.
