Postcard 169

Cut up Poetry/Dialogue from article on Anchor-Outs of Sausalito

'When we start to be happy, its a hard transition
 -- because we've groomed each other.'
Dream frowned. 'They think its a murder
and not a man who foiled himself to death.'
I asked him what he meant.
'There is nothing here!' he shouted.

'I remember an acid trip I had,' he said,
stroking his yellow-white beard.'I was a sperm
swimming through my mother's vagina --
well, soon to be my mother --
and I wasn't trying very hard at it.
I looked around and the other sperm
were just floating around on their backs.
And you can beat the other sperm,
but you can get there at the wrong time of the month,
or end up down someone's throat or in their hand.
To arrive at the right time --
it's just so fucking off the wall.

Thanks, Bessie,' he said,
Bo cracked his beard.
'That's his broad.'

'I might be the oldest --shit,' said Bo.
'My birthday's coming up.
I'm getting ready to go.'
His shirt was open. 'It looked
like the life was sucked out of him.
They shut the whole park down.
They don't know what happened.'

'A guy started buying my art,'
he said, 'Then I stared thinking differently.
I'll drink this. That'll help.'
He sighed and reconsidered,
'No it won't.' He reconsidered again,
taking what must have been a very tepid, flat beer,
and shook his head, 'I'm lost.'

'Excuse me, its five-thirty.
I got to go home -- like the white people.'
He gave me a big grin and tipped his hat.
I told him I hoped to see him again soon.
'It doesn't matter!' he said,
offering me a friendly wave.
'I'm gonna take a hit of LSD,
just saying.'