writing a poem (on my iPod: feels like cheating)
while greyhounding back homeward---
(weekend red stripes in guelph & waterloo)
it hasn't much t'do with anything,
save perhaps this mournful banjo
in my ear and grey toronto
and the plateglass houses of the
great rich masses set back on
manicured hills. . .
                            . . . it is overcast again
---tho t'always is on busfilled
                     travel sundays---
when you've nothing else to do but
leave all the weekend's joy in the dusts.
preachers screamin' in fastidious belled churches
while my head splits (from th'very thought)

and O the women i leave behind!
the tight snaky barworn dresses,
smudges (lipsticks)
on ***** cranberries ...
                                          ah! (ah!)
all the numbers and names half-collected,
waiting for next trip down
---or maybe just black oblivion.

. . .
but enough of cloudy thoughts!
i have Spring and all (WCW)
waiting in the pack &
                                      afterall

                                  ... poetry

is the only thing of any importance.
the gardens of bedroom bliss
the freckled map of womankind
the rippling cascade of golden hair
must wait...