And That's Ok

and some days sitting, looking out of the open door, to the tropical sunlit yard, feels like being in a Goddam tomb; but when the long-haired girls walk by and smile that smile, everything looks better and that's OK and life looks brighter and I wake up a little more and dream of honey and a hot M16, and I make coffee on the black civil-rights stove, and Martin Luther King shouts out, "I have a dream," and thats OK and alright, and life looks brighter and the house across the way is decorated in shame and the hookers hum dull tunes, and play on their Gameboys, and discuss Columbia and their vulvas, and the kids they never had, but that's OK and alright, and life looks brighter and the stealing monkeys come in and out, and the furious, curious, crucified neighbours, come in for sugar, or a loan, or to borrow a dream, or ask for my phone; and that's OK and alright, and life looks brighter and the sharp cruddy, thud, thud, thud, of music from the disco hall, makes the bad girls dance and the boys smoke dope, and the priest who wants a wife and a rest from the bible, gets down and makes his move; and that's OK and that's alright and life looks brighter. and the wheels of the trucks kick up dust and leave their travelled, oily hopes behind, and maiden aunts with pension plans, and questions about sex, and fruit and empty wombs, busy along; and that's OK and that's alright, and life looks brighter and the swaying palms and decaying, delaying coconut farms, with their chop, chop, chop and howdy-doody charms, get under your skin; like olive oil and turtle soup, and beaches with perky, querky, pleasant staff; but their Ok; and mean no harm, and that's OK and alright and life looks brighter and an old man once said in the heat of a dense, humid, lazy, fishing day; "don't give a damn, it's OK and it's alright,"... and life looks brighter.