they say the days
for ideals are over.
be practical. work hard. study.
or fly to the moon.
but I go on living,
in a daze,
a bit remote,
like a misfit.
they all say yes.
but I'll say no,
from basic principle,
like salt.
some kind of born
dissident;
worse yet,
an anarchist!
even friends are
growing suspicious.
with a handsweep, a parting glare,
I toss on my scarf,
stick a book of poems
in my pocket
and take off.
no, I can't stand the noise
of traffic.
this damn civilization
is hard on the ears,
not to mention
the lungs, liver and
other body parts.
I just don't get Salys Semerys,
or Sandburg, or
Mayakovsky.
