Its hard to believe the beauty around me— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
when its so rare and fine,
calling me, my eyes water with want
and my soul aches for the loss of it
but my car won’t start today
and I’ve never got enough time
to do all those mundane things
this dusty smoggy LA life is full of.
I don’t know where the shining haired
beautiful people are today,
there’s none in my mirror.
Though, sometimes, when my car starts
and I’ve got a dollar in my pocket
I can convince my friends I might know something
just to see their eyes begin to water….
gallagher
17 jan 75
Archive for the ‘1975’ Category
1975-01-17
Friday, January 17th, 19751975-01-25
Saturday, January 25th, 1975 LA visions, tonight, sobered me
junior high hells of extortion and conformity.
The teacher from college who couldn't believe it was real
scared me with his stories ... all I want to do
is get away from the edge of the city's sore.
He goes to the school every day amazed ....
He knows that, but for his tie, they'd rob him.
He sees minds dying, pitifully smothered
never having known clear perceptions.
All of us, here, pushing to get to the top,
somebody's got to fall.
Best to forget them and move on
and try not to look back
not to hear the screams of those who pay
for being born in the wrong place.
We've got FM radio and shopping malls
and a world that seldom borders on theirs.
All we have to do is keep track of the edge of their world
and keep moving, one step ahead of their cries.
gallagher
25 jan 75
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
1975-01-29
Wednesday, January 29th, 1975 Some men study it all their days
and die with the question on their lips
Some men find it with a lightening clap of insight
and some men track it with rulers and logic
until, at last, they have its form.
Some men look outside and see just the is-ness
...great jeweled clocks at play.
Some men look inside at their creations
and find madness along the way.
Some give up and some, some go on without hope...
And some, like humming birds hover,
and watch the question turn on itself
until their reality and thoughts weave like snakes
in the navel of sweet mother reality.
gallagher
29 jan 75
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
