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Tag Archives: originalpoetry.org

missed the boat

the world was in my grasp

and I turned my face away,

because I ¬†guess that’s who I am.

I guess i’d rather just watch railroad tracks,

Watch the trains rolling out

To California or El Paso,

Tacoma or Ontario,

or other places I’ll never go.

I let the door shut

on that perfect person

and for What?

Garbage and Broken families,

shadows of marshland memories,

Cold Tupperwares of tortellinis.

I guess i should have tried,

but it may be

that loving another

just isn’t for me.

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spook lights got me lost in skeleton swamp

it’s 2 am again, and Marco’s softly following a will-O’-the-wisp into the murky depths of the bog, stumbling over logs in the fog, trying to reach the light in the night before the glowing Red eyes of the Beast close in for the feast.


Cry of the Salmon Woman of the Red Earth People

hey first people,

how is the reservation life treating you?

stop another freight train in Canada,

got a job serving drinks

at Red Wind casino?

more teen suicides

as you cry and watch your

culture die

But hey,

keep on giving it a try,

and maybe by 2045

you’ll get

those treaty rights restored!


Some Thoughts from Today

Bob’s son is dead, his world ended a few days ago,

But he was at work today.

He looked at me and said How are you Marco,

and I didn’t really have a reply, Because

The unliving Eyes of striped bass

and rainbow trout

bore holes in the back of my head.

It stank like fish blood.

I wonder what is happening in Trinidad right now,

it’s a weird thing to wonder about

Because as far as my concern goes,

Everyone there

Doesn’t even exist.

To me, wage slaves in Thailand or China

are just a great bargain at K-Mart.

But what am I to those slaves,

who put the stitches in my clothing?

Do they think absently about Paterson,

and ponder How was Marco’s day?

Because their’s

was hen bu Hao!

The world is a psychopath,

so watch where you put those fingers and toes

And Don’t trust anyone

you wouldn’t piss in front of.


Warning (seriously)

Don’t stare too long into the eyes of a dead fish.

they start staring back,

And you won’t like what you see


Cheer up, Marco

the world is beating me up

and i’ve had enough :(


John Faa of Dunbar (nomad song-Westward Ho)

Meet the nomads of America,

the misfits of our race

the ones who ride on rails in boxcars

Carrying Lives

from place to place.

Meet the ones

Who stick out thumbs,

Gypsies of the high plains

and Roma tribes of Oregon.

The state fair circus folk

with peculiar tattooed faces,

Staring through the sunburnt haze

into the depths

of outer space.

The carny girls

who pass through town

and band van drifters

who just don’t

stick around…

it’s something that we

have never had,

but i guess that’s all it really is;

just a different type of being sad,

the hunted vagabond kid.

the loneliness of the road,

the freedom of the wanderer,

the empty absence of a home-

but at times i think,

Fuck it let’s go,

Pack my shit

and

Westward Ho.


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