Friday, June 14, 2013

You don’t go killing all the bees

for Ainsworth

This Sunday’s services begin & end with
a mixture of hashish & tobacco
rolled in page 37 of our hymnal
                                                  (not really
it was actually a page ripped from one of those
miniature tide books they hand out at the Desolation
Surf Shop, corner of Tidewater & Sunset)

The subject of today’s sermon is
“The Dark Night of the Soul, or 
                                   Someone had to be There"
Addressing the congregation:
It is a wicked world although there are nasturtiums
& palm trees growing in it
& an ocean that stretches from 38th Ave to the
                                                                 drop edge of yonder
            any given Wednesday with pennies in my sneakers
                        & a dirty blonde alibi
                                    (the conditions of my parole)

What I meant to say was:
The steep gradual fogmist gave me yet another reason
to double back thru the cuts only to resurface on the bluff
            Ape in the rain at Cuernavaca
                        resurrected in dice games on the ocean floor
translated into every language even bird song
            & bubbles & the noiseless cry of algae
                        as the credits roll up
                                    & the music swells