Thursday, November 12, 2009


RWP#100...Prompt is dreams


I left home a long time ago
in a tin cup on the track
with a suitcase of emptiness
looking for a landslide of answers
from the preachers of truth
to be a madman painter
like Van Gogh
burn words of sick poets
like Kerouac
shoot crap with drunk hobos
like Mr. Mudd
stop pucks from the Rocket
like the eccentric Sawchuk
throw sliders and screwballs
like spaceman Lee
remaining speechless forever
because it takes two to talk
become more boring with time
to attract the ladies of the lost Zodiac
forgetting all the grades failed
because the schoolyard was a horror show
disturbed by my friends in prison
who couldn't be trusted to conspire
to sing Your Cheatin Heart drunk
with the great Hank Williams
to be a drunk writer in Havana
like Hemmingway
to be a stoned jazz singer
backing up Billie Holliday
to be a poor elevator operator
stuck on the ground floor
to be a gigolo in Montreal
unconscious and healing the unknown
eating a smoked beef sandwich on the Main
with Leonard Cohen without his hat
migrating to some unknown land
with a ceiling higher than Christ
pouring whiskey to the converted
so they could thrive in the cold
listening to Trotzky and Marx
as they talked to the spirits in Moroco
sitting in Casablanca drunk
with someone called Bogart
travelling the unknown highway
unaware the party never ends
of the broken radio
and all its guts
with closed eyes
not being afraid of travelling blind
with the Boys Of Alabamma
holding on to nothing
but the bruises caried inside the suitcase
dreaming of home


Paul Oakley said...

Ah! The dreams of the modern Romantic!

If I were to choose favorite lines, they would be:

migrating to some unknown land
with a ceiling higher than Christ
pouring whiskey to the converted
so they could thrive in the cold
listening to Trotzky and Marx

You portray the ethos beautifully.

anthonynorth said...

This is great. An intellectual's adventure.

Irene said...

Wayne, this dream seems strangely familiar. It is transparent and cool at the same time.

Jeeves said...

Nice one

Cynthia Short said...

This was powerful. It was so interesting how the piece starts in a coherent way and then tumbles into a swirling rant as dreams are known to do...then your winding down to reference the suitcase finished it perfectly. Don't we all have dreams (or fantasies) of singing along with Hank or Billie?

Wayne Pitchko said...

Your all so kind....thanks....and your all so great with your words and dreams

theresebroderick said...

I like how the suitcase starts and ends the poem -- the poem is like a suitcase, unpacking its bruises one by one. The quest is never done, though, because at the end of the unpacking, the poet is still "dreaming."

bearlyaudible said...

North Beach (in SF) is waiting for you I think. City Lights bookstore, Ferlinghetti's old place, and you'd fit right in! Cool place.

And, "become more boring with time", oddly, pardon, amuses me much. Thanks for writing Wayne.

Tamra said...

This is a great "on the road" poem. I especially like the series of "to be" lines in the middle.

gautami tripathy said...

I love this roadie dream poem!

skin dreams