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"
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
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
