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“He is one of the wiggy prophets come back.”
    ~ Lawrence Ferlinghetti, “He”

I love the scent of your twisted mind
    basking by the starlit shore in New Jersey
As your mother and your Aunt Rose wield their adhesive support
    their anonymous scorn their sackcloth-corseted opinions their
    emasculating ambivalent protest
You bring home the formica flatware illuminated with frescoes
    depicting scenes that unfolded between the Sather Gate
    stanchions in the glorious past
Like the afternoon the band played pheromone Journey tunes there
    ecumenically in the wake of the big game
Swinging trombones mellophones and one sousaphone so
    round headed and shiny it nearly struck the eminent
    bricks of that gracile courtyard
But that was after your time
A generation for which Chico Marx is but a vague recollection
    or a reference to an old sitcom and an older commie
    if that
Nevertheless knows your reality your rants
Running roughshod through your crazed hobo existence in the streets
    of Brooklyn on the San Francisco streetcars at
    the Rodin sculptures overrun by Negroes posing for photos
    in Philadelphia
Mescaline nights wild with the praises of paranoia
    of death of hashish of flowers that know themselves
    of staghorn sumac in sinister gardens as though crystal
    meth would soon be invented
Take that freight train straight down the double barrel
    wishing well before Hitler comes knocking, knocking
Rage against the backlit dynamos that wheel you around
    shrieking with supernatural insanity through
    fireplace heights of rack-mounted blister-packed illusion
Rage against the porcupine lecher who judges the dead
    and the quick with wretched amusement at the patience of Job
Rage against Moloch the leprous Earth-cheating hydra-headed
    stagnancy that raped its brother in the monastery begetting
    the viscous sludge that defiles the conservative suburbs
Rage against the suicide money that destroys body
    and soul with deuterium raindrops in orgasm of ragged
    empty wine glasses bongs tubes freezers and bilge tubs
Rage against the soft condominiums of the acid injustices
    that fill the blind heavens with twisted chunks of metal and dropped
Rage against the whey protein evaporated condensed pasteurized
    toothless cement-fed overinoculated hormonally-imbalanced rancid
    flavored flakdrink that’s all that’s left to fill the hoards
    of empty bowels
Rage against the oversexed understated misanthropes who fill the
    fields with faked excitements and forced praises
Rage against the gilded machinery that’s relinquished your own
    safety my safety and the safety of all the animal soup that is
    your grip on reality
For you are the poet who stands and recites the ruins
    the revelation
    simply stating the colloidal existence you know so well
    already through the vexed sermons of nonchalance
Recounted with all the despair and hope that can be lodged
    within a single human soul to whom the dreamlight whispers
    “Allen, Allen”

Santa Cruz County, June 2010

Thanks always returns

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