A businessman of poetry,
decided at the age of 23,
   to make a life long living,
selling scriptures, vivid as pictures,
selling rhymes that punch like liquor,
 Giving the mind reflexes quicker,
Find mine, watching the bottom line,
like the busiest man you can find, online,
Putting stickers on billboard signs, is a heavy crime.

Guerrilla Poetry,
built like a factory,
mature as wine, intoxicate olfactory combined
with increased dopamine re uptake inhibitors,
Measuring literary authority, while the bitter bicker,
      over musicality in scopic regimes,
     in populous driven commercial machines,
of dividends, assets, and cream
   all on little pieces of paper,
made from cotton and linen like jeans.

A businessman of poetry,
   sews the audience in to the rhythm of dreams,
when every night unable to go to sleep,
its just poetry to a beat,
that repeats, and repeats again,
something to eat and breath in,
A hip hop heathen, who heated leaves,
to heed these lyrical legions.
       At ease, please receive,
The written, to read the recipe ingredients,
for the battalion, set aside scallions,
from our garden, to the veteran guardians,
letter bending artisans,
never sending partisans to a bargain,
with John Mardin on the guitar,
    rendering the soul’s that are starving,
from near to far,
    sparing business czars in the Bazaar.

A man of his word,
usually spoken as performance preferred,
sometimes using music to back a rhythm,
And often not a man of his word if it’s written.

Life changes circumstances and positions,
true lyricism cannot be contained,
as you listen to a vision never quite the same,

A businessman for poetry’s acclaim.