For God’s sake, Berkeley God,
you’ve got to do something.
A gang of holy hoodlums
who wear equanimity
like a Hell’s Angel tattoo
have crashed
your psychotropic house party.
They’re everywhere,
shuffling zombie-cool
across your photosynthetic carpets.
Now even the veteran tripsters—
the precious few
astute enough to drool
at your sophisticated
psychological
fairy tale—
are backing into the shadows,
spooked by the weary witnessing
drifting like a virus
through your bobbing brainscape.
I know, I know,
the mansion, the DJ, the guest list:
It’s all you.
The party. Is going. Magnificently.
But hell-o?
Even the spiritual rock stars
are slouching in their sofas,
grossed out
by your beloved, cosmic indigestion.
Magnificent host, please,
you must intervene.
The embarrassment will be excruciating
tomorrow
when the wallflowers wake up
to their frothing exhibitionism.
Leave a Reply