Howl of the Traveler
Five A.M., in the baggage room at Greyhound,
My sad self hums Christian Punk Rock—
a desolation on the road, a calypso traveler,
mugging the lion for all it’s got.
Footnote: I am the victim of the cellphone,
a cell of ghosts in the back of what is real,
seeking beauty against the ugliness of the government,
kissing ass to the blue angel of fate with zeal.
Greetings, America, from the fourth floor, at dawn,
I was up all night writing letters to my Aunt,
a footnote to a transcription of lyrics to music—
As Country Music Blues plays in a local restaurant.
A supermarket in a small summer town is mobbed!
These are the terms by which I think of reality—
Shaped by a painter, a sphincter, a poet—
Like a King devising an army of skeletons in duality.
Fentanyl floods the American bloodstream,
while my big crybaby self-scribbles
on the conduct of the world—
all to asphodel, an ode dribbles.
It’s too full at the local homeless Center,
as desolation blooms into the cross-hair winds—
those two shadows crossing the nation,
lost in the lion for real—ends before it begins.
WoPoLi 
Leave a comment