Thursday, March 14, 2013

Campsite Eighty-nine

I'm a steady rolling man
a wandering recluse
My resolve is tough as hardened steel
and my stools are soft and loose

All I seek is gasoline
and the open road ahead
Canned sardines and crackers
and a place to rest my head

When the ice melts in the cooler
and the sun sets, so sublime
I'll sit right here, drinking lukewarm beer
At campsite eighty-nine

By day I roam the highway
through the wind and rain and bugs
By night I sleep 'neath nylon sheets
and pee in plastic jugs


  1. Life on the road suits you. Perhaps in a past life you were a grifter, er drifter. Either that or hard working snake oil salesman. I get the pee jugs thing. You're saving them up and selling them to folks on parole. A Traveling Pee Salesman if you will.

  2. If you don't mind, I'm posting a copy of your poem on my garage door, next to an old faded Sacramento Bee clipping of a pic of Gorbachev on a billboard behind a Ural myself and anyone else that wanders in.

  3. Feel free Larry. Someday I'd like to kill a fifth of vodka with Gorbi.

  4. Bloody brilliant mate, eight inches of firm, unbroken stool daily, that's my goal in life . . . reminds of the lines not to say when in a gay bar.