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
