some poem, vers. 2

After traversing the hospital-monster
to see democracy-in-traction,
and placing his bouquet of blue-roses
above the fluid-droid
in the growing anarchy garden,
old Soulful Sinful walks down Perishing Ave
past views of blue hills,
picking bopped-poppies from the plethora of flora
pausing for the bitter-sweet beauty of bone-yards
and sweetly-strummed alley-way echoes
of "either/or"

He's headed for the coffee-house
on the 3rd floor of The Freak Museum
where dapper, oft-spectacled humanzees
play conversational chess
while mentally fleshing out charicature-studies
of each other's over-sized craniums,
or else they drool demonically-distracted
by the long-legged, sable charms
of iced mocha-sipping fem-flies
on the canvas-barnacled wall

But the closer to The Freak Museum
Soulful Sinful gets,
the more he's stalked with regret
and when he finally stands before
the electric marble promenade,
he passes on:

first walking,
now running downward into
the tangled tawdriness of East L.A.
past block and block of Asian grocery marts,
omni-present liquor stores,
past thistle-grown streets
and fallen American women with angelic smiles,
past walls and bill-boards spray-painted
with bullets
and vast, colorful mai-tai melded montages
selling everything and nothing

Finally, he reaches a cool-blue door
on the ramshackle second floor
of a swirling, colorful eye-sore...
he knocks softly, then twice more,
before being let in
by Janus the black-balloon

things will be different now