Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Gasping for sanity,
dizzy with cigarette,
I watch the herd
from my spot
at the bus stop.
There's a homeless man,
leaning on a telephone pole,
clutching a can
of franco american spaghetti.
I can't take my eyes
off his wildness.
He takes a knife from his pocket,
holds the can out arms length,
stabs it open,
whooping, screaming, piercing,
like an eagle on a rat.
I take a spoon from my lunchbag,
offer it to him.
He laughs at me,
pushes it away.
Takes a stick from his pocket.
Shovels that orange glue
in his mouth,
all gleamy eyed
at his manna from heaven.
It's obvious
he lives
in a way better world
than mine.

i prefer chef boyardee

I like how the five first lines sound and also the can-icide crescendo ... very precise! and I can see you, the man and the spaghetti right now...!

damn... that was very visual and i like that.

He takes a knife from his pocket,
holds the can out arms length,
stabs it open,
whooping, screaming, piercing,
like an eagle on a rat.
I take a spoon from my lunchbag,
offer it to him.
He laughs at me,
pushes it away.
Takes a stick from his pocket.
Shovels that orange glue
in his mouth,
all gleamy eyed
at his manna from heaven.
It's obvious
he lives
in a way better world
than mine.

I think the poem takes on an--what's the right word?--an immediacy from this point.

thank you hester
I can relate.





































I was sitting in a ragged out Peterbilt with a sleeper cab that smelled like a kitty litter box, bald tires, bad brakes, and my foot was swathed in bandages. I was sitting at a light in National City California getting ready to head up north over the grapevine.

Sitting on the curb at the red light was a bum with his bandaged foot, his crutches by his side.

I envied that bum his safe seat there on that curb.