Dango

ah well

the winter blues are finally settling
though the sky has been remarkably clear of late
a `koharu`, what they call `little spring`
extending to the cusp of winter,
persimmons, pumpkin-orange inhabit
leafless trees, ornamenting the branches
with a dying autumn sweetness

miles davis seems to suit the afternoon fine,
long langourous early 60`s blues and swirling dreams
of tropical sunset, `En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor`
that`s somewhere I wouldn`t mind going now
the same swirling woodwinds that draw you
in to the M*A*S*H theme, winds of abiding regret

to be back in California, first time in 3 years
will be something, well, not remarkable
something different, lets see how well
I blend in

I often dream of walking the hills, and streets
of San Francisco, lets see how well those
winter colors match the delicate, clear
shades I recall

methods by which

Kerouac lubricated writing,
his devil may care highly detailed scribbling about
woods, city and bummy places,
the patterns of the puke stains
on dirty tiled floors...
treasuring the excrement and detritus
of the city and turning it into
sculpted narrative hamburg patties where
self referential sad men
pass days in lust with jazz
and pills, demented women
who have taken pity on or have for the thrill of it,
have in some way themselves
become scrambled in the American blender.

Though at first i resist just as one
resists anything well trodden, trail worn
just as one resists wearing a brothers outgrown shirts
one gratuitous rebellion against previous
rebellions, rebellions piled sky high,
scars of rebellions probing deeper
I find myself exhilerated by the fast moving
prose which I don`t have to follow
to any logical conclusion,
which I am not bound to cherish or respect
which may in fact suddenly devolve into an
explanation of the methods by which
one may achieve satisfactory masturbation
in a train station lavatory stall.

Aliens Visit S.F. circa 1966

Martian landers in a far off fog, far flung upon
the fabled frisco shores, barbary sharks and pirates
rising steep in roads carved of rock.
The party is over before its already started it`s just
fading against a four-star backdrop.

Clouds move white against a sea of bream and dark hidden
purple grottos, where Jazzbo Collins spins endless
platters to the martians delight,
they sway their antennas in sang froide syncopation and
click their snappy green heels.

Back in the gamma wave alleys, beyond the passed out drunk,
in the depths of the Tenderloin,
the sound of foreign chatter, high pitched decibel mishmash
perhaps a martian love song, or tibetan

The saucers hover in the night taking in the sonic beams
transmitted by a hundred flying freaks,
ready to beam up to that big clam shell in the sky
long as there`s wine and plenty of weed.

And one flew over the double rainbow, a real Kesey cuckoo
type, polk-spotted and full of jump juice and jive
torn apart on the funky splatter somewhere
around Prospero and Haight.
Everyone looked up, far out and collected the remains to bake.