a vagabond
who knows no home
it's Saturday
with the rain

 Sharp hope could cut you, ya know
she
tells them it's all OK, she lies

Once
when the voice of poems was sleepy
he told it
that now was time to be awake.
typing is a physical activity,
takes it's toll
on the heart, mind, and body.

He wanted to
sing in key
without the pain of ego
to tell of things
that don't seem to be easy to say
any other way.

Ewwe AAAhhh

We Aren't ever home here
I could plug in the guitar and make the room shake.
How much more coffee will she have today?
This isn't a poem so much
as a basement rave
a genius with an ax
shreding through the chords
at double time
triple pay
he's going to be famous
if he doesn't OD first
Basement, 40th Pine St Philadelphia, November 1982
I don't remember anyone's name

Those Philadelphia dreams
had huge appartment complex sized
rooms for rent
everyone is lost behind their doors.
There are no parks, nor the idea of parks,
nor any green space except for the weeds
that grow between the cracks in the pavement.

In the real Philly, 
you've got awesome parks
sure you might come across a needle
but it doesn't happen very often.

My heart breaks
it's broken
in a song, ya
just in a song
ewwe ahh

My mind aches
for real
typing
trying to keep my back straight
the blood flowing
I typed to hard too long,
drew too many three D designs
got sick
from a spider bight
and never went back to it.

If your heart ache is poems
shouting down the man
disappointed by the politics 
of hate
she said 
they will take you to a higher place in dream
where politicians
can not come
not that we wouldn't like it if they could share with us there too
but they never seem to get there
everyone pulls their own weight,
buys their own beers
no freebees on the house
no comp
no one shares needles there

If you see 
the miles of paved paths
roads
river beds
and imagine
the cost per inch
per foot
per mile
or just a firm fixed cost
and think about how all of it funded something else,
summer homes that people came to hate filled with ants
that never have a purpose to die
so let them live.

If you see it all, rolling past
from inside your china white car
going fast
faster 
faster
screech owl on the midnight highway
crest of a knoll and a thirty mile down hill run
don't get caught behind a group of Canadaian truckers
trying to get their haul through
before the dawn.

She looks at it,
the memory of the owl is still fresh.
She thinks about it.
The sky has become a blizzard
the thought of owls goes away.

Without the thought of owls
or stories about owls hooing
she
didn't need those ceramics, 
the very many novelty bean bags,
got wet, sprouts
started sprouting
she three it off of the back porch
it shattered and the beans all spread
some of them partly grown.
the squirils had a feast.
But the squirils couldn't get them all
though they tried
until something else came to fruit,
to nut
to fall and fill the yard
the squirils somehow know to burry what they find
and all summmer long
and from then on
every year
different kinds of
wild beans
without a need for owls.

But those owls make those squirils more cautious
the squirils could do with out it, danger

if politics
has troubled you
its because how people disappoint you
lashing out
and filming bad behavior
and pushing people down
afraid of the clam down
smack down
play that final card?
Life isn't a poker game
at the end of it we all need a meal and a place to sleep.
Stop telling everyone else what to do.
Government can't ever run everything,
but they sure can make it hard for anyone else to run anything either.

My morning
along
narrow sidewalk
making my way
down the long street
to the bottom of the hill
where the train runs.

That train
will take you
to the city
city of light
city of night
city by day
city in fright

My morning
had no sense of worry
to keep the voice down
outside the laundermat
listening for the train whistle
wondering who will come
who will go
to where will we wonder
daylight comes in half an hour
near by the river mists dampen the buds of the trees that hang really low,
maybe would be dipping in.

My morning had no sense of worry.
Sunrise on the mainline heading out of the city.

I'm all bottled up
ears stuffed up
mind clogged
worried
about you,
how you've been doing
with worry
and work getting to you
I know
it's a Wednesday, you
can read it because the post will 
list it
  
I'm all bottled up with 
bop bop and woe
don't know how to keep it all inside the
rainbow
where the rain doesn't go.

Ideas
can't flow out
with the stopper
still in the bottle of mind.

All stopped up with worry, are you?
Just forget it away as a wish
"Worries be gone!, never stay"