gypsy hotel

[cmoore]

in the days before the moon became a coin
no I mean before I flipped the moon
no I mean after I read Rimbaud read Baudelaire
no I mean before poetry became a machine
no what I mean the poet lived in a cheap
hotel

with a small stash of books
chased off by the dirty looks
holes in shoes and pockets
living on the funny money
who wandered the streets and hallways
of the hotel for lost souls
for universal travelers at the cosmos crossroads

looking for a poem in the postage stamp window
or on the face of a homeless angel
dressed in rain and stars
looking for the truth where there is none
looking for America like a phantom
in the empty factory

I did not see the future in a life of crime
nor in one thin dime, but my copy of Golden Sardine
and Blood of the Air

[saw]

excellent...really enjoyed this one....good poem for open mike IMHO....

[cmoore]

Glad you liked