|A Note to My Stranger-Angel-Siren Boys|
I miss you, Jack and Allen; no one seems to buoy the salvation of the naked poetic soul by the phosphorescent light of oceans as you!
I think I’ve lost America and I’m not sure who to blame, my consciousness severed and scanning your strophes for meter and rhyme and finding, outside of time, a hysterical reason;
And I walk away from my spring-pink-and-green college campus to an interstate eating a Franken-food plum wishing I knew a real dharma bum to howl my therapy out with, to smoke a violent violet joint with—Why’d you boys have to die?!
Instead I watch my feet stumble-shuffle slow thru Zen gravel at the side of tar, mind off-beat quiet and quite shell-shocked; the hydrogen jukebox is all that’s left, Allen, that and my headache,
And karma obviously is not the mind-ache of my fellow society since the blue men assume I’m worse than a killer, a whore, just for beating my path aimlessly down a road and want to arrest me—Jack, were you ever considered a gigolo for being a beat on a hermit-street and winding?
And still the dollar-job and big-dollar politicians get more whorish and dirtier all the time and the military doesn’t even have to follow EPA guidelines, as that will threaten our sanctioned and conditioned security of the nation—
And in the nation of Vietnam now babies are born with missing fingers and fucked-up toes and extra heads in their forever sexless crotches just from harmless pesticides and insecticides; hell, just call it infanticide—it’s all true, true!
The world is waxing into one giant diseased America—maybe it’s syphilis, I’m not sure; Columbus had it after all, so why not? Whatever the disease, the dis-ease and anti-righteousness keep spreading and polluting truthful sorrowed voices, and you’re gone and I’m lost and scream-crying tears of cheap pink champagne of night-before mimosas wondering Why?—,
But no one knows where or what or who America is and we all have manic-shitball-scruples and very little originality and we watch mega corporations line their britches with oil and money while we have and force others the choice to starve or eat G.E. foods and no one cares— and I’m lonely too…
So my friend and I drive to parks thinking Hemingway and Beatnik, by the light of planets and stars we smoke and eat rosemary bread and cinnamon butter with brown pears and barely ripe strawberries with blended cheese and a cabernet reading Walt by headlights till we get kicked out, too tired to argue; this just doesn’t cut it—
When will you prophet boys return, Jack, Allen? Where are my [Will you be my] Stranger-Angels?
When will your reincarnates turn the world right-up-side-down again? We’d all be best friend revolutionaries and trumpet our sutras from rooftops like long-winded jazz musicians tripping on ayahuasca!
You are lusted for like the sirens, only your psychotropic songs tear me eerie from the classically wayward boat of America, my shipmates all pussed-out long ago and left me on my own, flown off in rescue helicopters to their conventionally-raped homes fake and confused—
Jack and Allen, I’m all crazy-sappy over you! I want you here typing beside me so in the evening we can drink kava like mud and play narcotic-guitar and full moon poetics before a tsunami liquidates this half of the world too;
Jack and Allen, craved sirens necessary of America, come home or bring me somehow to you, before I sacrifice my soul to Moloch and give up all the desolation and wine I ever came to have and watch myself fade into the crack of the wave…
Come, Jack and Allen, my hallucinogenic salvation sweet-spot itches for you.
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