The Story of the Salesman

Since I really don't have too much to add at this point, and since a blog seems either a great resource to share your thoughts with the world or a tool to stoke your own ego, (maybe both at once) I thought I would put up three poems I wrote a long time ago. I never liked being called a poet, first off because it implies that one writes professionally- while I pride myself on writing in a professional manner, I don't really make a career out of it, and besides that, I always thought of a poet as a guy who wore black all the time and has a goatee and glasses and...oh, wait, that sounds like me. But I don't take myself seriously when I write, it's just something I enjoy, and other people seem to enjoy it, too. It's not an ego trip, it's about responding to the world around you, and if someone else enjoys what I write, so much the better! I will be glad their day is a little brighter thanks to me! Here goes-

Salesman, Part 1

Born to be a god among salesmen,

working the skinny tie

Got to

drag myself back to Now

More motel rooms, moving

door to door

the world unreal in its neutrality,

endless green Dodge on

the freeways of 1950's midwest-

Nationwide he rolls, five AM

over black ribbon shining,

How far until the

next city, next gas station, the

Next Big Score? The

Space Age lurches forward

The Salesman, Part Two

She said she said don't hitch a ride

with the Monster Man, we'll

Need a new plan, but I

Needed to get to town

His skull rings like a bell from

hammer blows, the

Sun makes a pool on the bathroom floor

and his real name you don't know, still

wondering as a spider crawls across

the orange shag and cigarette burns-

Where is

the Salesman's next big score? We

wish him luck

The Salesman, Part Three

I see below me the

rose that is the city spread out

maintained from the remote control of

searing truth, I

Involuntarily breathe in the

contact high from the driving wind, and I am there-

A non-event in time marred by

lack of language perfection- returning,

going back down the hill-

back to run on all eight cylinders, I

leave behind a wisp of smoke- my wish

that you remember me