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.
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