I am a Lonely

for Walt Whitman, Thomas Wolfe, Woody Guthrie,

Kenneth Patchen and Jack Kerouac

 
                                       I am a lonely and a lonesome traveler
                                                                    traveling from one extreme
                                                                    to the other, from summer
                                                                    to winter, birth to death,
                                                                    morning to night.
 

                                       I am a lonely and a lonesome traveler
                                                                    fleeing from injustice and
                                                                    intolerance, fleeing from justice
                                                                    and the long arm of the law,
                                                                    from the suppression of shackles
                                                                    and lead core nightsticks, from
                                                                    rats feeding on starving children
                                                                    while the rich toss leftover
                                                                    caviar to their french poodles,
                                                                    from the pointing guns which
                                                                    enforce the edict of the law
                                                                    and from the law of the
                                                                    lawmakers who feed only themselves,
                                                                    from the bosses who pay to
                                                                    have things done their way
                                                                    to the blind masses who
                                                                    would rather stomp on your hands
                                                                    than have you lift them any higher,
                                                                    America the ignorant, I flee
                                                                    from you.
 

                                       I am a lonely and a lonesome traveler
                                                                    traveling through this poor
                                                                    jaded world, traveling under
                                                                    a cloud-obscured sky, over
                                                                    a dim and gloomy land, passing
                                                                    by the common riches which
                                                                    would have been disclosed
                                                                    by a proper light.
 

                                       I am a lonely and a lonesome traveler
                                                                    searching for a quiet spot
                                                                    to rest my feet, searching
                                                                    for a friendly town, unquestioning
                                                                    and unjudgemental, searching
                                                                    for fair company which knows how
                                                                    to savor a beautiful day
                                                                    without spoiling it in strife,
                                                                    searching for a stream where
                                                                    I can drink, a tree bearing
                                                                    fruit for me to eat, and warm
                                                                    earth where I can lay at night,
                                                                    searching as people have searched
                                                                    since before coming to this land,
                                                                    searching for what cannot be found
                                                                    except through death, the great giver.
 

                                       I am a lonely and a lonesome traveler
                                                                    traveling on down the road.
                                                                                                                        1985
 
 

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