We hung out on the edge of the city,
drinking in the fumes and the sangria.
We were young and intellectual.
"We will make the future great!"
The next day it was all the same.
And the next day and the next.
We were quite aged,
though you couldn't calculate our age,
Far far away was our victory.
And, paradoxically, old, old, and incurable karma.
Demented, sensitive to the terrible, optimistic sky.
Newspapers blowing twisted, obscured evidence,
little bits of sharp sticks stinging God's children.
Far away. Far away,
longing for inscrutable fulfillment.
We fused with the city's eternal lights,
Having exceeded cosmic senselessness limits.
We scored incredible elixir.
Ordinary but transformed.
Augmented Ecstatic Joy of the All That Is.
Reserved for those whose agony is especially profound,
Suffering on the Earth plane, in the dismal city.
Perfect composition, exquisite blues,
Powerful and moving as the drum strains
that have for centuries led young men
into war and slaughter.
("Advanced Lessons," dare we hope?)
Bound in rags, living with cockroaches and rats.
No matter. Our thoughts turned our world.
Darkness comforted and cloaked its ether.
Neon beckoned humming, wild invitations.
Mighty forests and rivers, like Kubla Khan knew,
Merging eternal, joysprings, promises O promises!
Promise never realized.
as not every bud on a branch will blossom.
Is there a universal conduit here?
Over the centuries- the next, the last, forever.
People, never seen again,
Patterns can groove into Healing Truth.
So important. Because of the fang and the claw,
Always hanging around, on many city streets.
Everyone beating the crap out of each other.
Tramp tramp tramp-here come the dead.
Tramp tramp tramp
they all fell down,