in this poem

[revolutionR]

in this poem i walk on water
not like that other guy
i just write as the first line of this poem
i could write like that other guy
with all those crazy ideas about his dad
i could read all about in some hotel book
when i'm down and out,living on my last buck
i could sit around all day long and read Sartre
being and nothingness, and dive into that
existential vacuum, and find some kind of mind
because how can i relate to anything real, if
nothing real makes any kind of sense, in this world
i can relate to the dark void of the stranger

looking up at the chaos of stars in the darkness of space
and looking down at the river going by under his feet
pondering the absolute total abyss of everyday existence
seeing his life go past like some grim reaper in a clown suit
looking at the black water under the bridge, reflecting his mind
the water, the water deeper then his memory, his crushed butt
dreams, his stony thoughts sloshing back and forth in the big inky
the ones he was typing a while ago on his old portable, words

spilling out of his fingers, like mercury, like print fire, bleeding
on the page, all the terrible things taring up his guts, blinding
light flashing into sentences that have no direction, sentences
eating up the scenery, all the philosophy he devoured, now

becoming little words that can only grab at some bits of meaning
like the birds in the park pecking at the bread crumbs on the bench
where the hungover poet sits trying to recall what happened last night
he had rented a hotel room in North beach, hung out in City Lights
was on his way to a poetry reading, with some poem he was carrying
with him in his pocket all folded neatly, was on his way to the open mic
somewhere along the line he was drinking wine with another poet person
oh, he could not tell the words from the wine, this "the song of the poet
who died in the gutter" his favorite line from Dylan's " a hard rain is gonna fall"

[saw]

dug the journey....a long voyage of thoughts and words, visions of the past

[judih]

this poem is a classic
not to be mistaken for that other poem
in this poem we grow