Bus stop haiku for Kerouac

sitting writing
at the bus stop
I contemplate life

people buzz and hum

waiting for their lives

to arrive

the boy on his skateboard

plays with his keys

staring at the clouds

hoping for rain

on a summer's day

I bring an umbrella

in the dark

shadows drift

I cannot sleep

corner standing man

gazes at the girl

his eyes unfocused

broken looking girl

with the green hair

what's your story?

sitting with her

on a hot afternoon

I sigh inwardly

waiting at the bus stop

I call you

-again

plaid shirt man

looks my way

his eyes smolder

leaving the bus

I catch a glimpse

of his sketchbook

alone in my room

pick up a book

I slip off the dust cover

highway blues

roll out of the radio

just ten more miles

fishing for words

for the beautiful stranger

'love your hair?'

empty road

I walk slowly

feeling freedom

lipstick stain

on the rim pf her glass

my heart breaks

parlez vous?

a lady asks

shake my head and leave

her dyed red hair

and deep gold tan

set the room ablaze

writing on

this crumpled napkin

much nicer than paper

Alaska

She moved, naked
within the room
and he watched
from without.
her hair black
her eyes glowing purple
her skin painted green
by the light of the midnight sun
as it shone through the window.
she opened her eyes
pausing her step
to turn on a light
and she saw.
and then what?
a loss of innocence?
a gain in knowledge?
an awareness of-
something.
she pulled out a book
she pulled on a skirt
and sat by the fire
-she put on a show
reading.
he watched her then
late into the night
he watched her fingers
flip the pages slowly
one by one by one.
a graceful dance
the song she hummed
swelled in her heart
and outwards
upwards
inwards again
notes pulsing
one by one by one.
and she cried with the dawn
tears coursing down her chin
dribbling into her lap
one by one by one.

The Writer

Smoke drifted lazily in the room, winding up to the ceiling.  He stood in front of the crowd, eyes cast downwards at his paper.  his head was balding, despite his youth.  The room was silent. 
He began to speak, slowly at first, then quickly.  His voice was crisp and clear.
"You all have a misguided opinion of me.  You seem to think that I am some kind of genius, an artist, an intellectual.  I'm not."  He stared at the men in the front row, at their suits and their ties.  He glanced back down at his paper and continued: "I am nothing but a collection, an emporium of all the things I've ever read.  I've never said anything that wasn't a quote from somewhere or other.  I have no opinions but the ones I've read in books and in papers.  I am completely unoriginal- a kaleidoscope image of all the people I've known.  I don't truly exist.  You've said many times that I'd be missed, but I would not be.  You would miss only the convenience of me.  The convenience of having a walking, talking museum of all mankind's lesser traits.  You don't believe me, I see that.  You can't accept that I am merely a plagiarizer of all the things you've said.  That all I am is a menagerie of words and books."  He looked out at their faces, at the murmurs spreading in their throats. "But thank you for your support.  I accept this trophy with pride."
The crowd surged forward, to hug him, to assure him they loved him.  And they did.  They loved him because he was nothing, a reflection of themselves.  They loved him because at his core there was nothing but words.  He was their soundless gong, their broken window.  He was their empty bottle, their blank masterpiece.  He was their tuneless hum and their sorry reflection.  And the writer watched them with sad eyes, he watched their angry-sad mouths and their hurt-hungry arms and he was saddened.  Because in the end, they defined him too.

Well, well, well

So I wonder how it's going ta go
And I wonder how it's going ta be
I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
I wonder who I'm going ta be
Who I'm going ta wish I was
I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
I wonder where I'm going ta go
I dunno where I'm going ta be
But I'm feeling well, well, well
Today
The future- what's it going ta be
What'll life be like for the world
We all say well, well, well
Today
So many questions gotta be
So many answers never found
I hope I be well, well, well
Tomorah

Rain slicker, Star slinger

A rain slicker drips on the hook by the door
She pulls a revolver from a bedside table drawer
She holds the barrel to her ear and thinks no more.
The stars shine naked in the black night sky
Concrete sees the changing day as people pass it by
Another minute wasted, the star slinger starts to cry.
A city washed with rain wakes from its drowsy sleep
We trail down dirty sidewalks finding what we'll keep
Pills are prescribed every day- no questions asked, like sheep.
A rain slicker drips
The star slinger cries
You will keep on taking pills
And so, my friend, will I.

Whispers

Always there
Filling the silence
Between the two
In the spaces
In the gaps between them
'Hold my hand'
She cries
But he can't hear her hidden words.
His hands stay in his pockets.
His mind whispers
'Kiss me
Like you mean it'
'I'm broken'
Is her reply
'I'm scared'
Is his.
'How can we continue?'
She wonders
'Hold me'
'Hold me.'
She turns,
faces him
and he's there in an instant
heading towards her.
His arms embrace
and she smiles,
because somehow
he heard.

Musical Chairs

I stand up
and you slide over
she walks away
and he comes hither
we walk like dancers
we talk like conmen
in this terrible game
of musical chairs.
So where's the love
in our lazy wanderings
what's the what
and who is this now
we smile for the camera
we pass by the pauper
in this horrible game
of musical chairs.
A new mask taken up
for the friend and the lover
the cracked crooked mirror
grins on its own
we laugh when we're hurting
we lie when we're loving
in this deplorable game
of musical chairs.
We're all actors on a stage
and then there were none
the chairs all gone
and we've missed our cue
in this terrible horrible deplorable game
musical chairs.