mcfly

cracked too nice a bottle  
of an eighty-eight Imperial Porter  
to not dip a few words into the mash  
and see if they float  
 
the weather reads buoyant.  
 
Two nights left on Caesars' summer  
the moon already chasing the tail  
of harvest  
 
crickets drum rolling extra s's  
sweater removed from attic  
stationed on porch  
 
full pouch of tobacco  
same color as the bottle  
that the smoked porter sits in  
 
like a fucking cowboy  
 
Louis Lamar following Hell's Angels  
bunking with Hunter S  
 
beat me a few beatniks over the head  
to toughen up imagined roads  
 
sober up enough  
to get fucked up  
proper  
 
problem with that wave  
rollin back in San Fran  
in sixty something  
is that it showed up in the saline solution
handed out at the needle exchange in Philly  
 
now the hippies have handguns  
 
the artists see shrinks  
 
and the poets  
write verse to promotion