this bridge is quiet
there ain't a truck for miles
and a cold rain
is startin to fall
guess i'll duck in here
stay dry for awhile
stop and think
about it all
and then i feel it
pressin on my ribs
the way an iron
press a curl
i am alone
i am alone
i am alone in this world
couple broken two-by-fours
maybe make me a fire
can't see no harm
in gettin warm
lean my back against
this thrown away tire
sit me out
another storm
you know i feel it
bustin through my ribs
the way a hammer
smash a pearl
i am alone
i am alone
i am alone in this world
buncha busted bottles
and i don't even care
the way they ruin
that soft grass
might bust one myself
cuz i can hardly bear
the quiet
of a dry underpass
because it hit me
right between my ribs
the way a bullet
waste a squirrel
i am alone
i am alone
i am alone in this world
Love to All,
- John O.
Yes alone, the absurdity of mind at work.
ReplyDeleteBreak that bottle of illusion, delusion but spare the squirrel.
In my humble opinion and with unspeakable compassion, I offer these words,
Ellen
Well, Ellen, as I experience the poet's job, it is to inhabit and record as many human states as possible. That includes the brutal death of the squirrel, the Union Parade, and a good many others that have already been or have yet to be inhabited by me. I do appreciate your compassion, though, and want you to know the state I am inhabiting right now is one of inspiration, confidence and love. No doubt it will pass. Everything does. But that truth is the seed of freedom. Thanks for being a John O. reader and stay tuned!
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