I love the deserts and oceans.
It’s pretty deep this poem.
It’s not how long you live, it’s the quality of life that counts.
The world is a drug.
If you live a good life
you should never be afraid of dying.
Now . . . I can’t remember what I said.
Is that New Wave poetry?
The deserts are deep.
How much is hidden below the sands?
How many worlds past?
How many places and people we could never even imagine?
We know the world of the water.
The ocean is fish eat fish.
Do we really want to be able to swim underwater?
Ask an octopus.
Beautiful blue and green
and then black
and then iridescent.
And it’s still fish eat fish.
Beautiful world of water.
The desert is death.
Nothing lives.
Except camels
drinking at the oasis.
A lonely sand worm.
Nothing else lives in the desert.
For miles and miles
dunes and flats.
The beauty of the colored dunes
in the sunset toward night.
The desert is a beautiful place.
Except at night.
Life lights up.
The lonely scorpions and snakes
own the desert at night.
Nothing lives
where there is no water.
Except the camel I embrace and clutch
every step of the way
through the sand and the wind
to savor the drop
of moisture on the rock.
The desert is a lonely place.
An expanse
as humble as the sea
on a remote island
or in a boat on open water.
A deadly place.
The oasis of cool trees and fresh cool water
along the long stretch of desert.
Remote.
The camel is my boat.
THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO 
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