i sit staring deep

into the void,

wandering,

what it would be like

to overthrow the dollar.

poems written

in how free it becomes

to tidy up my life.

the daisy, the iris, the rose,

in a wake up america.

this monk alone

living in a state of poverty,

is twisted by an appetite,

that makes me grateful

in the anti-depressants line by line.

but here i am

sitting in the chill of the air

somehow finds beauty

when your checking out my identification.

money goes where money is –

and that it really does matter.