Beatchick 

There’s a poet on acid in the garden battling demigods, Ferlinghetti unfurled at her feet 

In the distance glows the guiding light of a television as a christed candyman stands on a table littered with remnants of a relapse and shouts, 

Look at all this fucking bliss!

A man with a handlebar mustache asks if we met in the past and suddenly 

I’m Coco Chanel’s assistant searching for signs of a Dutch Resistance Hero in the midst of a midnight raid

Trading secrets to swamis for deliverance of a forgotten word

The tiny Mao in her mother’s military hat smiles across the table as a fascist gets punched in the face by the facsimile of a friend who took my load off while Nero fiddles on a stairway to nowhere 

The prodigal daughter caught in a loop of psychedelic 

return to sender:address unknown 

Hermetically poetic in a free fall through the cosmos and giving the middle finger 

As I dance with Dr. Thompson’s ghost

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