There was a man
who sat at the corner
bus stop.
Beside him was
a paper bag with cups
in it.
Why does he sit
at the corner bus stop
staring?
He is alone,
without a home to go
home to.
What does he see
sitting at the bus stop
alone?
He sees nothing.
There is nothing at all
to see.
Sometimes I feel
like the man at the cor-
ner stop.
Written Feb. 7, 1983. I stay inside the dark and weary castle keep. It is lonely. I know loneliness. She is my friend. Outside is cold. There are many vicious things out there. The many pronged whip that beats on you until you’re a bloody pulp. The razor that slices souls. The knife that creeps…
Written in 1983. I stretch for endless miles. My brethren stretch out beside me. I have many visitors. Yet I am always alone. Bubble gum and cigarette butts on my belly, Dirt on my back, I lie and watch the creatures who forever traverse my stomach. The old lady who pushes a cart Cares about…
Written in 1983. Life is: lessons to be learned dreams to be realized adventures to be experienced. The reason is: getting to know experiencing the new realizing the truth. I want to: learn know experience realize. I want, desire, need to grow.
Well, actually, I’ve probably written couplets before … just not on purpose. In my Long Beach Writing Examiner column today, I wrote about couplets. And just for fun, in the section about couplets in Long Beach, I wrote it in the form of a couplet. When searching for couplets in Long Beach I lurch Toward…
When I was very young, I created fire. I created rock tools, and the wheel. When I was in my teens, I learned agriculture, and made gods that ruled everything I did. When I was middle aged, I discovered that there is only one god, and that he hadn’t created everything. I discovered evolution. But…
This poem was an experiment … pushing my comfort level with expressing sexual desire. It was written February 20, 1991. Let my lips enfold you like petals about the stamen Let my hand caress you like the ocean caresses the shore Let my eye behold you more beautiful than a Rembrandt Your touch is like…
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