a microphone inside my head
static playing mad tunes on my tongue
a lonely grasshopper without wings
To Be A Poet In America
to be a poet in America
is to be faceless
like the Indian on an old
Buffalo Head nickel
to be a poet a prophet a shaman
is Boxcar Willie riding the rails
without a guitar
to be a poet in America
is to be invisible
A Bit of Zen
Monks in
meditation
Have no need for
explanation
Homeless
he stands in the rain
searching garbage bins
for pieces of treasure
aluminum recyclable cans
which he packs
in his shopping cart
his home on wheels
limping off into the night
talking to the cracks
in the street
