December 8: Will Write Poetry for Food

I don't have a lot of what I would consider practical job skills.  I can't hammer a nail straight.  Hand me a power tool, and I'll probably end up injuring myself in some way.  Having gone on plumbing service calls with my father and brothers all through my teenage years, I still can't fix a leaky faucet (unless calling my dad or brother to come take a look at it counts).  If I were to stand on a street corner, looking for work, the only message I could print on my sign would be, "Will write poetry for food."

Sometimes I wish that my natural talents were more practical.  Perhaps if I were a whiz with electrical wiring, I would be happier and more fulfilled.  No, my gifts tend to be less tangible.  I can write something that will make a grown man cry, but I can't replace the wax gasket on my toilet at home.  The fact that I know what a wax gasket is, I owe to my father and brothers.  That's not very useful when it comes to home repair or extra income.  There's not much call for a freelance poet these days.  Perhaps I should have lived in Elizabethan England.  At least , then, I may have  been able to find a sugar daddy duke or prince to fund my writing.

A good friend at work told me today that I've been really unhappy the last few months.  Actually, I believe her exact words were, " You've been a really miserable crabass."  At first, I was a little offended.  However, I did a little inner inventory, and I realized that my friend is right.  I haven't been a very pleasant person to be around.  My friend did add, "I hate to see you so unhappy," which lessened the sting of her assessment of my life.  She was speaking out of love, not spite or anger.

And I must admit, I haven't been very happy at work the last four months or so.  It has a lot to do with the fact that I'm pretty tired most of the time, and I'm not really doing work that fulfills me completely.  I think I'm good at what I do, and I think I'm good with patients.  But I'm not really using my gifts to their fullest potential in my present situation.

I don't know where I'm going with this post, other than to say that I need to figure out a way to earn more money, and the only way I can think to do so is to (1) sell my body for sex (if I just want to earn enough for a pack of gum every week or so) or (2) prostitute my poetic gifts by writing poetry for desperate high school and college students (which may be more lucrative but potentially dangerous, career-wise.).  Therefore, I'm stuck between gum and a hard spot, so to speak.

Obviously, my Pollyanna outlook from this morning has worn off.  I can't find my happy place.

Saint Marty is a poet in search of some cold hard cash.

Brother, can you spare a rhyme?