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Hobo Jungle
A hobo walks along beside a stopped freight train. He staggers, but catches himself as only a hobo can. He notices the spent remains of a fire beside the tracks, a cardboard shelter, an empty bottle. He sits beside the cold fire because he doesn't know what else to do. "Christmas," he mutters. "It's coming." He looks at the sky. Orion with his belt and dagger. The Rigel star.
RIGEL (Beta Orionis). Like its rival in Orion, Betelgeuse, Rigel (Beta Orionis) is a supergiant. Its name comes from the same root as Betelgeuse's, originally "rijl Al-jauza," meaning the "foot" of al-jauza, the Arabs "Central One." For us, the star represents the left foot of Orion, the mythical hunter.
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Melvin Barrett
- Posts: 79
- Joined: Thu Jun 10, 2004 9:43 pm
I like this poem because the profile of the poem is like a motel sign.
MOTELS
I dream of the perfect motel,
Without the perverted oily clerks,
Without the stale air of a thousand
Failed nights, without those leprous
Carpets, without the chipped plastic
Veneer furniture, without the grey
brittle sheets, the lumpy pillows,
The wrapped cups, the limits on
Ice, the clown prints, the
Flickering neon signs,
Without the damn
Sadness.
I want to fock in the perfect motel.
I want to pull in drunk, driving a
Finned convertible, or she could be
Driving, just so the car bobs hard
As it enters the motor court.
And in the office I want to be
Greeted by a smiling Forties-style blonde
Who will hand me my key and tell me to
Pay later. "Take as much ice as you
Want, fill your cooler, ice your beer
Good, OK," she'll wink.
And the room will be fragrant
And the carpet like a massage
And the cups tall and glass
And the sheets white cotton
And the TV will play all
Bogart and Bacall, just
The great scenes, and
My baby will come into
My arms hard and
We'll fock.
MOTELS
I dream of the perfect motel,
Without the perverted oily clerks,
Without the stale air of a thousand
Failed nights, without those leprous
Carpets, without the chipped plastic
Veneer furniture, without the grey
brittle sheets, the lumpy pillows,
The wrapped cups, the limits on
Ice, the clown prints, the
Flickering neon signs,
Without the damn
Sadness.
I want to fock in the perfect motel.
I want to pull in drunk, driving a
Finned convertible, or she could be
Driving, just so the car bobs hard
As it enters the motor court.
And in the office I want to be
Greeted by a smiling Forties-style blonde
Who will hand me my key and tell me to
Pay later. "Take as much ice as you
Want, fill your cooler, ice your beer
Good, OK," she'll wink.
And the room will be fragrant
And the carpet like a massage
And the cups tall and glass
And the sheets white cotton
And the TV will play all
Bogart and Bacall, just
The great scenes, and
My baby will come into
My arms hard and
We'll fock.
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