an unbeatable force

an unbeatable force survives.

it is sometimes colored by its singular doors

undressed willcall of blameless speakers,

unnamed and crept past in solitude.

we were taught 

most lust after something,

then grope for a way back in

a way back out.

the parties irregular

convening alone on a mountaintop.

shoeless hunters are we-

hopeless bards in need of shined shoes

to mirror those recurring silent head reflections.

last night in a dream

my friend reengaged to her warm breast security.

he'd been divorced several times now,

trying constantly to convert gray into the multi-LSD colors he actually sees.

only one cannot change what one dismisses,

those senses that blind us from what has been extracted from truths.

so eventually my friend grokked

and went off to build a room for himself,

to wait for inevitability to happen.

there he could track these visions undisturbed,

away from the drunken chorus of scribes downstairs.

“I must go this alone”, he muttered through an unlit cigarette 

(and the scribes of course all nodded testifying their empathy).

there is a singing chorus of gangsters in the alleyway out back

seeking employment, not pay.

since they'd left home,

there have not been many friendly faces to wish them harmony, unmolested.

so they resolved to lead the hobo lifestyle,

noses in tune to all the hot applepies

left cooling on alleyway windowsills.

above this house,

lights sparse a solo progression on the way to getting dueted,

for one voice is permitted at a time for any sort of mixture

forming one light.

and everyone sees it, 

especially the gangsters who direct their stares

to this broken brick home,

hoping to catch a lesson,

to petition this refuge

for a portion of what gifts have come through its doors.

yes, they know our windows have been kicked in,

they understand our floors are rugless and clear,

and that our walls leak with hieroglyphics.

still, it is from this palace they receive direction.

some are willing…

others pace….

a few have overslept...

but here in late spring snowi has begun to fall.

have you ever been a gangster

searching for your satori mountaintop room to dream?

23 St. St. Louis, 1974