Observations of Disgust

Chuck Connelly sold his art in thousands
early on, his craft endorsed, money to bathe in,
until abruptly, as all monetary concerns happen
Abruptly, he lost it all, his work an Autumn leaf
crusted against frozen winter ground.

Now he lives in morning beers, a dollar a can.
Resentment brewing in his mug,
his brush, a sword, pirating paint on a canvas
under priced, and always
underappreciated.

Because in this world, this America,
your passion means nothing,
your good heart, a dusty antique,
a chiming bell above the empty donation tin
during Christmas time.

All you are is all you owe.
Your pretense, your post tense,
how much did you pay for such a degree?
If you cannot prove boost for the rest, You rest,
in the sanctuary of self sacrifice,
self practice, self-
less governing.

Please, help yourself,
take the insatiable sip from the fountain,
Mr. President’s drool, a make-up of
money to owe.
Please, help yourself,
it’s yours to lap until you croak.