Dispatched from the SkyLounge #2

It's an eyedrop Sunday night here somewhere deep in the Portland sky, just landed back home after a two week sojourn, saw the ocean, saw Andromeda, slept in a hotel room once frequented by Ginsberg, swam in more neon than anyone could have possibly conceived of on this planet and in the mundane states of standard psychology, paid homage to the bard, fondled human remains unintentionally, bathed in friendship and hospitality, ate In-N-Out burgers, saw pictures of the Bhagwan in the former Rajneeshpuram, and realized exactly how Democrats can regain the political upper hand in this fouled state. It's all composting now in this dungeon head that needs a good cleaning and some general reorganization, but that work doesn't pay the bills, so it's back to software.

Has anyone else noticed the resurgence in interest in Marie Antoinette? Does this presage the return of the guillotine? I'm suddenly drawn to the history of the French Revolution.

Anyhow, enough of the babble and on to the point.
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Bicycle, bicycle
two wheels down the first LSD highway
around and above Dutch canals and a pocket full of hash
a half-pound tea in panniers on the Portland waterfront
not a pipe bomb but an explosion of the mind
neighborhood streets regain their hearing under these wheels
we all love bicycles when we're young
bicycle to the library and a crate full of books
bicycle to grandma's house Friday afternoon
bicycle across campus after another death-inducing party
bicycle everywhere
bicycle bicycle bicycle
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Drone drone drone you do not see what you see
this is what's really happening nothing you see
stand back and let's get away again
more death more demolition more pages turned
away horror shrieks a head rolls
out the door bloody across the highway
no looking here, you see, nothing there
move right on doesn't matter to you
you just laugh along and forget you
didn't really see that those weren't real
ashes in the crook of a redwood tree
spilling down thousand years sides standing
long after the devil sulfur smell
washes away under the green heavy
forest ahh.... ahh..... just let the
ocean roll back and over back and off
what's that three star band over the world
again, I think I've lost my stars and
don't know don't recognize the sign anymore
no planet no asteroid no hyperspace just
feet on a brass bar rail and two
hundred years old messages fading because
we can't find the hashish key anymore.
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Ages of concentration, hallucination, pressed down
deep under the skin
Michelangelo saw pieces of fingers
long before he realized David,
every piece a hungry labor,
artists don't rush it,
and then there's Pollock,
and then Picasso
the poet is simply lazy, rushing through
another piece before the whiskey evaporates
getting the word down before taking
one more smoke,
poetry is just a fast-food art,
a modern convenience on
an inter-sane highway,
the flashy billboard, the flashing hitchhiker
damn the pieces! we'll duct-tape it together
throw in some cliches, some stereotypes,
just enough to fill up a page,
and then we say we've done something.
YES, we say! Genius, yes! And oh
so quick! What wit! What absurdity!
What the fuck?!? I just don't
get it, you say
But what is there to get these days,
but a few bullets and a bad case
of phobia?