a car was pulling over i looked at it
sideways and saw ganesha at the wheel
what i wondered a being with a female
head and a penis had lost in this posh
bar with syrupy jazz for latent
cryptozoologists? nobody was smoking around
each and everyone fitfully squeezing
a kindle in a vegetarian hot pink
cover stuffed with vegetarian books
for vegetable men and women tortured
by agoraphobia as if afraid of losing it
nobody smoked in boulder anymore
except me and ganesha but when i eventually
plucked up the courage to ask if he had
a lighter the car was empty was just
a beautiful chunk of shunyata
nathanael west was sitting drunk on the
curb dreaming of faye greener pygmalionism
galore but he wasn't smoking either
i was feeling great my god aum shri
ganeshaya namah drunk like a medieval
cobbler kind awkward nosy crumbling
monument to italian wine to an imaginary
soviet dissident while insipid teen guys
full of shit of course in moscow were
listening to magomaev leshchenko bg
kim okudzhava vizbor galich
makarevich kobzon gradsky and khil
disgusting singers of the stagnant
times now in vogue again while
jamaicans were smoking ganja
on the endless beaches waiting for
pieces of wood to drift ashore at their toes
to carve cats elephants zebras lions
and giraffes out of them
would americans buy them or not
as if they cared
my friend byron completely broke
and talentless was choosing hooch
at the zionista cafe near the northern
airport brimming with dub already he wasn't
able to tell an elephant from a hippo
listen byron with all your painted
seashells like cancerous tumors
it is not a matter of talent whether
you're called after that verbose
romantic or the wishy-washy singer
it is not even a matter of just sitting
here fuck all zen ch'an and dhyana
buffs no matter how many a cloud
you have gulped down for a living
here and there
