This is a very old poem . . .written sometime in the late 70's . . .when I was pursuing an acting career in my oh so fickle youth . . . I found a lot more than acting . . . this is one in a series of poems. I considered revising it, but it was so long ago I thought it best to leave it as is....
I've grown attached to Him.
The exceptionally tall wino who travels Vine St. He is.
Catching Him on my first day. . . with the years Watching the minutes, Finding it now in the moments, The cancerous futility of His existence
He is
still cradling the necessity of his life.
I am
Watching as He loses height, Pulled tightly from His gut The body curls.
His invocation, Spare change. Successfully numbling our eyes As we look into display windows.
I am attracted Using my imagination to straighten His shoulders, Shaping His muscles into tight blue-jeans.
God, why do I need to be His witness?
He is. That He stalked Vine St. That the tourists on Hollywood Blvd. made way for Him, As He pissed privately on the stars.
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
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So much meaning...