I saw a girl made of nothing
in the reflection of the sea.
No form but her dark eyes,
staring back at me wide with curiosity.

The sky was her canvas,
the stars were her freckles.
Her blood ran in the sunset,
Rain fell like her tears.

Though she was a beauty,
she had no story to tell.
Because God is a silent gift,
subject to the tortures of being heaven far too close to hell.

i wanted to write
exactly what i felt
but somehow
the paper stayed empty


and i could not have described
it any better

I sat out front
on the large
concrete steps
and allowed my mind
to slip just to
see how it felt.

The occupants of
the Mad house
sat and moved
about around me.
Some held intense
conversations
with the air and
with all that wasn't
there.
Others picked at
scabs or picked
inside of noses.
Their polluted
minds wondered about
everything
except why I was
there.

A guy in furry
slippers and a women's
hat decided I was
there to give out cigarettes.
His face froze with
confusion and horror
when I told him
that I didn't smoke.
Another guy
danced on the sidewalk
in wide dramatic circles
to the music in his
head .
His eyes were
closed and his zipper
was down.

I stared across Beacon st.
along with some of the  Mad
and watched two winos
as they sat on a bench
in their park.
They each drank out of
***** paper bags,
an occasional
mumble exchanged.

The scavenging gulls
stood sentry
as the pigeons
picked at the
ground around
them.

I looked past the winos
through the palm fronds
and the eucalyptus.
A hulk of a container
ship slowly made
it's way along the
harbors main channel.
I thought about the
history of this place.

Where once sat a
library,a place to
seek out and to learn.
Now sits two winos
with their own
kind of knowledge.
And what was once a
YWCA a place for
recreation and youth.
Now serves as housing for
those whose minds have
wondered too far.
Those who dance on
Beacon st.,
alone.
To no ones music
but their own.

I am more like
Monroe
than
Edgar Allan Poe-
and what a
relief
that is!