months since last eye writ, your eyes most likely have never crossed mine.  still inhabit the buststops, now called bus shelters though they are not a "shelter in place" place, but a crossroads where the poor and rich, the youthful and the nearer-to-god-than-thee sit bearer nearer to each other when they reside in the equality of the moments that are globally know as
    "waiting for the bus"
or as
     "waiting for Godot".

eyes have seen buses in Rio and Delhi that carried livestock and more humans on the exterior than the interior.  

but mine eyes are in a slow fade away mode, dimming in a final
sun setting  so u are needed.  
give me your bus stories yearning to he free and I will give you
my imagined ones
for are not all bustop poems are imaginary?

i haven't slept in two nights
i live my life from
cigarette to cigarette
i live my life from
word to word

i haven't brushed my teeth in two days
i live my life from
bustop to bustop
i live my life from
raindrop to raindrop

i haven't had *** in two weeks
i live my life from
pestilence to perjury
i live my life from
decadence to debauchery

i spend my days in the sun
i spend my days in a stupor
i spend my days in a sofa
i spend my days in a state of confusion

i will rest my head on a brick tonight
and i will dream of a young girl with blue eyes
being swept away on the crest of a blue wave

i will dream of selling my soul for a handful of quarters for laundry
i will dream of old eyes by firelight, and old war stories
i will dream of a blindfolded angel with fire for hair walking slowly across a room
i will dream of a clear night sky in the country
so black but i can see the stars,
my god can i see the stars

i will dream of a world as bright as the sun
burning and falling to the ground
burning and falling to the ground
burning and falling to the ground

they come
for me in the
summer

sweetness of
the moon rains down
on the last bus
going home

all the flowers
crushed beneath
the sky

cry for the
mother tree

it's not that hard
to mute the violence

for she was standing
still when I met her

now she's part
of the crop

I don't know what
else to tell you

I've never known
what it feels to be
someone else

I wear my skin
more drunk then
others

my bones pierce
through my veins

the blood rushes
down the staircase

spiralling into
the circles

circling the end
of times

I wish I'd known
you better

but you don't
exist inside these
walls

if only I was trying
to build a better world

we could've known
each of us

there's nothing
else to succeed our
thoughts

there's only so much
you can feed the insides
before it eats you in your
moment of silence

it's better to burn the
rest of you than keep
living the lies

maybe the fire will
cleanse us of our stagnant
despair

nothing moves without
a herculean effort

is this how you feel
when you are sober?

it's better I don't
wake before the end
of another year

I've never felt more
alive when my mind is
blank

so let them come
and find me

I'm waiting for
something to happen
anyway

I'll trade all my
fantasies for one
moment of absolute
nothingness

I can't even tell when
the summer begins and
where it ends

I wasn't born to
count reality

I can't give the raw edge,
Of Life,
a chance in words,
flies away like birds,
it is not mine,
to give.

like the amazon queen,
who ****** for her ****,
(they sleep for now)
they both crawl or limp
out from behind the bustop
I can see the scars from her battles,
starting with the nose on her face,
working down her arms,
and even her legs,
he is an intense pair of eyes,
Address *mean street on repeat,
as his looks are like darts,
avoid eye contact, or there
might be only two sounds

he is porter, drags the bags for the both,
they are looking for a home, as the hint,
of cool morning dew tears, is fall, then winter
Will chase at their heels, and his role as protector,
will be tested against a cold-hearted enemy,
in the open, they are on the hunt for a shelter
to run the business, where he is lord, master, lover,
And ****.

every day this merciful summer,
it has been a different stop, bus or not
every night under stars pinpoints,
Not Needle Marks,
but the Personal Crack Pipe,
needs cleaning before the next use,
like removing makeup from her skin,
just to put it on again,
And off,
And on,
as he banks the money,
for commodities Street market loss or gain
after all what is the price of crack *******?

The raw cost,
In the raw, her business attire,
The raw edge,
I have not lived, not mine to give.

©DWE092013

P. I
If God took LSD he would think he was me
I would never know I never took drugs
In school or out
Even that time when my eyes were red and I shout out
“Hugs not drugs!”
And hug my drugmate for whom hugs were too far and who lately stripped and walked the streets naked with me
Being absolutely sober ofcause.
P. II
I remember once
The shining sun went down and true suns shined
Upon someones bed
I danced tango with a pretty pretty boy
And then I made love to his girlfriend
I really do not understand how that happened
But the next morning we got dressed and I never saw them again.

P.III
After a long silent busride
With me and my best companion in roles of passengers
We drank wine and to be honest I do not remember much of that night
Except that when we winded up at a bustop I was kissing a girl
And I had no idea who she was and I don’t have any idea now.
We also met a gypsy who was one of the best people I’ve met
It was definitely one of the best nights.
I hope there are more of them to come.

forgot how to love
she said 'spank me, man'
i spanked her too hard

I tried to kiss her kneck like James Dean
she didn't feel it.

i made her bed while she was showering,
i made her coffee while she dressed,
i held her hand at the bustop and then walked home.


i found a note in my pocket
a drawing of a flower,
a drawing of lips kissing,
her handwriting


again I'm in high school learning how to love
this time my lover already knows
and so it is easy to remember.


her makeup stained my favorite shirt,
the one my dad bought at a brewery in Berkeley but to be fair, the blue one that says 'Truckee' was my favorite until this morning

I hate how my voice gets when I speak to strangers so I prefer to stay as quiet as possible

I'm so glad you called me out of the blue today it's felt so long since I've been comfortable

enough to speak without thinking too far ahead.

Peaceful mornings more vivid to picture than yesterday;

This time last year--stuck holding on to hope without reason,
Sipping leftover champagne walking you to the bustop

And gone you went just as that version of you is gone still

And it is beyond debate that I'm in a better place now.

My alarm rings,
Thankfully, again I descend to the bustop of a new dawn.
My eyes wide open,
To see the magic of another morning,
My mind at ease,
Ready to accept the challenges of a new day,
Eager to face the surges of possibilities,
Breaking on the horizon of dawn.
The beauty of the sunrise,
Hued with the colours of my goals,
Awaits my hunger,
The new dawn will bring.
17/8/2023