She take my money when I’m in need
Yeah, she’s a triflin’ friend indeed
Oh, she’s a gold digger
Way over town that digs on me
Uh -Kanye West

Tonight we are drunk as we walk across the old south side bridge, singing “Gold Digger” with impoverished irony.

We are brothers, two homeless old warrior poets living in a shelter on the edge of downtown.

The moon is full as we stroll above the mesquite and cottonwood trees growing along the banks of the muddy Trinity.

I lean on the crooked rune carved walking stick that once belonged to my dead father.

Everyday I genuflect before the alter a white void as I write with the devotion of a zealous monk.

Only recently have I realized that it has been over a decade since I shared my bed with a woman. Though I did not notice.

It is a long time to spend in a Theta state.

I think of Li Po drunkenly embracing the reflection of this moon on the Yangtze River.

I keep walking, wondering how many good years I have left in me.

How many good poems I got left in me.

We are still singing,

I wonder how much money I have left for the whores.

– Joey Da’rrell Cloudy