Please no more fighting for money—

No more staring into my stale fridge of expired dates—props to fool an anxious mother—Ok, so you do have some food! Thank God! She says she feels guilty—stays awake at night: I mean, how can she sleep while one of her babies has no food in his house? she asks me. 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, I say. 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. That’s what my mom and my grandma call survival, I thought. It was my badge of honor in certain intellectual circles: a lifetime of poverty training.

Uploaded by RedBlueGreen12345 on Nov 5, 2008

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memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona

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And remember,
my panhandling guitar case is always open,
so please…

 If you can.

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