I'm Not A Man

I'm not a poet.
I'm not a writer.
I'm not an actor.
I'm not a waiter.
I'm not a lover.
I'm not a crook.
I'm not a teacher.
And I'm not a drunk.

I am a soul lonely,
disparate rider
on the Newark bound
under river sleepy vibrating
metal train
coming from
the city
where I was
just a forlorn speck
scuttling over streets of rotting pidgeons
and beer bottles

going nowhere
and finally
coming home.

1/11/90

The Trip Down The Wire

So, well then, and so it goes, I guess. Which reminds me: we could use ol' Linda Ellerbee right about now. Course, we had her then and it wasn't really appreciated, by and large. But I'd sure love to hear her perspective. Maybe I'll look for her blog, since I'm sure she has a blog, since everybody and their mother has one but me and my dog, who doesn't really enjoy blogging or thinking much at all, really. But we've been doing ok without one. Maybe drinking and smoking a little too much. Biting our nails at the thought of all the unwritten words that could be out there in front of the eyes of god-knows-whom right now, as we gnaw down past the point of comfort. The angst at the unspoken, and the underdone. But she seems less concerned than I do, ultimately. Perhaps that's due to her licking prowess, but I guess we'll never know.

But, this isn't abbout Linda Ellerbee or my dog, cool as they both are. It's about a suitcase, a rusty trombone, five trips to the dental hygienest with a meatloaf sandwich, and tupence. That's right, I said tupence.

Oh yeah, and a freak meeting with a Mr. Edward Van Halen.

See you on the flip side,
Joe Zaloom