a poem from thee pleasure garden


sittting in a vibrating room,
low grinding pulse of life and sound
creeping from the fingers 
of the man of the house,
as he relaxes and is "at home".
no security system needed here,
"cant even open the doors from the inside",
we tell the door to door salesman.
he, with a clean cut look
as sharp as a stock-broker,
but still selling door to door
in two hundred dollar shoes.
last night...
gypsies and renegade thought provokers,
rocket scientists and total shit talkers
gathered here, knowing it to be special,
as the hammer of thee gods visited
in mesmerizing trance-like ascendence
of grand audio fireworks.. 
the prosession continued as the 
small child deamon ov sound
entered the room claiming 8 riders
and we rode like invoked voodoun
hight priests of musical nirvana,
intent on reaching monumental states
of altered mind and bending reality
in jazz-type groove slip fashion...
to a sonic drip in the pool of surreal.
later.. coming back down...
focus shifting to more actuality
than living fantasy...
(officer friendly came around to make sure of it.)
passed out casualites lying about.
others still in the drunkard's praying position.
the one in the pink fluffy robe, 
the one called a "young cutie" 
by the evil woman egging him to drink more,
able only to dry heave..in a bowl.. 
as he searches for blackout. 
slight flirtations looking for blossoming..
tired entertainers looking for sleep..
just people in general ..looking...
for whatever that fix 
to get them thru the night might be.. 
as they dance out the door to find it perhaps
in the arms of the evening's brillance.
it was as it should have been
it was a party
and festive gathering to pay homage
to the gods of life and living
and we as players in the charrade
lived and live on to party tomorrow...

-/\-   8/1/98    9:46p  S.Ogden, UT