Please no more fighting for money—

—

No more staring into my stale fridge of expired dates—props to fool my mother—Ok, you do have some food! Thank God! She says she feels guilty—stays awake at night wondering: I mean, how can she sleep while one of her babies has no food in his house? I tell her not to worry just to hear myself say it out loud: I’ll figure something out, mom. I always do. I always have—and I’m reminded of a poetry reading at my University in 2003. The host introduced me warmly, smiled brightly and said: He is an American poet who excels at finding creative, unusual ways to make a living—what my mother and gram called survival, I thought. It was my badge of honor in some intellectual circles: a lifetime of poverty training.

Uploaded by RedBlueGreen12345 on Nov 5, 2008

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Sang Lee is Dead: memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

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