#waltwhitman
I have scaffolding for sky—
choirs of carpenters.
Desecrated doorways.
Smell of **** and peanuts.
The hallelujah of halal carts.
Psalm of salsa.
A bodega bagel’s benediction.
My cigarette’s sanctity—
coffee’s communion—
steam rising—
seraphim
on a saxophone note—
Kneeling in the gutter,
I hear the city sing—
My window,
my forest—
my love.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:25 PM UTC
A noisy impatient fly
Humming by my ear like the fluorescent light overhead
Near imperceptible, but in the silence, grating
As it sung out, buzz, buzz, buzz, out of itself,
Always droning, never a pause in the incessant
Static.
And you, O my soul, where you sit,
Trapped in a cocoon of web, never quite alone
But immovably stagnant, perhaps once learning, chasing, dancing, Seeking that elusive something,
Till exhausted by the endless journey, only ever wishing
For a home
That you never found, but barely existing you continue, O my soul.
Nov 7, 2024
Nov 7, 2024 at 2:26 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Somewhere in New Mexico I tipped a Waitress 25%
NOT I - NOT ANYONE else, can travel that road for
you. You must travel it for yourself.
-Walt Whitman
On a cool autumn morning in New Mexico
A greasy spoon along the interstate
Walt Whitman and I enjoyed breakfast together
Bacon and eggs, hash browns, coffee and toast
And it was very good – no heaves of gas
But Whitman found an errand in some other soul
And sang a different self to California
McKuen rode with me the rest of the way
Breakfast was ninety-five cents; I added a quarter
The waitress was happy, and so were we all
Jun 18, 2024
Jun 18, 2024 at 12:02 PM UTC
I don't really know you.
The sparse details scattered across
Days unremembered yet unforgotten
Are but small glimpses to a life
Beyond my knowledge.
The true nature of your heart lies
Between the sunrise atop bumper crops
And the sky that holds it illusionary,
Yet the orange glow shines through my window
Every morning since our meeting.
Eastward drifts my soul,
Beckoned regardless of wakefulness;
Foreign things kept in choice vocabulary
Run away to from the moon
To only be considered there of--
Do I know you...?
I know how you went about your day when you
Woke up with a weight in your belly,
Groggy eyes squinted in sorrow and sleeplessness;
A tired mind running on hamster wheels with
Thoughts organized in bedhead disapproval,
Feigning extraterrestrial happiness
With bookwork and a cup of coffee,
Topped off with a bad taste in your mouth
And a blunt headache that didn't go away-
I know the monotonous capital of existence,
The placemat of our truths walked upon
Without a sole by the hustle imposed;
Drudgery felt like clockwork in the digital a.m
Shining neon "Go! Go! Go!" and you go,
"go. go. go..."
As I have gone...
As we have gone together...
As we'll have come before and since,
In shared moments of stasis every morning
We rise-
I will not forget how you greeted the day,
Not to yourself or your love or your household
But to myself and blessed others in those morning hours,
Knowledgeable and fierce,
Optimistically aware of every day past and upcoming,
Guiding the times as if set to sculpture
-Arisen is the phoenix at dawn,
Flamed feathers spawn the day
As we greet the nighttime gone;
I don't know you,
Not really, anyway.
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 11:03 AM UTC
carry on from the beginning
we are the alive poets society
words said by another
all we believe in is each other
secretive language all our own
passionate words among loving tales
writing words, raptureously flowing
others left completely unknowing
O captain, my captain
guide us in the ways of words
careful now, do not reveal
for they are our only seal
the only initiation
is contributing a verse
in a poem called living
or this play unforgiving
our pens speak like our tongues
writing what we wish we could say
undercover we stay, quietly
we are the alive poets society
carpe diem
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.
***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.
Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.
Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.
Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.
The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.
This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.
Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
I’m a failed musician
Broken
On the side of the street
Against the curb
Just like my guitar
And its useless strings.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a monotonous teacher
Depressed
In a silent, spacious classroom
Behind a podium
Just like my lecture
And its empty words.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a desperate ***
Insane
In a smelly, cold alleyway
Between scraped Dumpsters
Just like my self-made house
And its ***** bed.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a trapped housewife
Alone
In a deteriorating home
Beside unchanged relatives
Just like my furniture
And its absurd point.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a bored adventurer
Hopeless
Out somewhere upon the sea
On this old, worn sailboat
Just like my journey
And its careless end.
At least, I feel I still exist.
I’m a dead poet
Thoughtless
In my lonely, dim room
At my unstable desk
Just like my manuscript
And its blank pages.
At least, I feel I still exist.
Exist, exist, exist!
Through liberty or slavery,
Through love or hate,
Through energy or matter,
Through life or death,
Like Whitman or me.
Just exist for your legacy!
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:04 AM UTC