i found this poem in my notes. i wrote it sometime during the middle 1990s, when the muse visited me more often than she does now.
i roam, and i roam, and i roam
looking for love,
or a new and better score.
i roamed some, i roamed some,
and i roamed some more,
and came across
a sleeping dragon. it
woke. one eye slowly opened to
see what had disturbed its
big mistake on my part.
the dragon jerked up suddely and breathed
for refuge, i ran to a nearby house.
bold dragons fly through the evening
skies, smoky from the moisture of
fallen tears from the lonely women
and girls, rejected and treated
like shit by their beloved,
unfortunately for them,
boyfriends and husbands,
mixed with dust from the machines
and the dried smoke falls
on the earth, one of many kinds
of strange plagues of hatred
that roam the country these days
with the instantaneous
first in new hampshire
then in georgia
now in south dakota
and so on.
flashes of thunderbolts enlighten
the road. that's what i was told
but i didn't see them. must be the gods
turning on the divine light bulbs
off and on.
and so i saw all sorts of things,
like a dragon in a ditch --
sleeping or dead, i don't know --
i didn't stay around to find out.
then the grim shapes, like elephants
without trunks, and on wheels instead of legs,
drive through the fog.
then there's the place
where white is the color and all is
i stayed there a bit, but moved on.
kinda boring -- nice place to visit
and all that
i always thought that was a foolish
but things are foolish if you don't