Chicano Poet

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Desert Island

Robinson was stranded on a desert island
with a man named Robinson.
A dead Rod Serling rotting in the palms.

On a diet of coconuts and loneliness
Robinson subsisted
while scratching his name on the sky

with a seashell washed ashore by storms.
The clouds described themselves to him,
there is no thirst up here they said.

There is no proof the Pope’s a dope
Robinson interrupted fleetingly,
each sand grain a traveler.

Once in awhile he thought he saw a ship
debunk the horizon with desire.
The waves were a scholar!


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