Lonesome traveler on a bushwhacked piano
waiting for Lolita or Endless Life
never gaining the pure vision
the inspiration of a man of the spirit
waiting, waiting; seeking without looking
wanting without action; looking into
looking outward; stepping in; stepping out;
prancing dancing chancing trancing
I suppose it could do well for me
were God to speak to me sometimes
send me a poem to silence the critics
shoot lines of verse; metrical gems
thru my dirty, scratched fingertips
“No, No!” my uses say blocking me
from the sun’ the blossoming trees
keeping multi colored impressions
unutterable plight; pitiful fool
laughing hysterically; screaming madly
not knowing, not knowing, not knowing
perhaps knowing all too well