We Poets Are Waiting For the Moonset

we poets are waiting for the moonset sitting on my balcony, evolutions shamans now wandering the beach we are solving every social ill while walking Blake's path of excess to some palace of wisdom this sojourn has but one worry the hour the liquor store closes less the worry here, shamans open doors money, lycanthropy meandering the beach a ramada where we wake the proprietor who finds such occurrences propitious vending beer, most cultures' insanity is sacrosanct the moon is waning into the ocean to Bach's Toccata and Fugue we are singing Eddie Arnold's cattle call while the other horizon eructs red-orange warnings poets love to ignore evanescent crescendos write something every day, i am not that bored the sleep never begun is over quart bottles cover the table our proprietor lies in the Land of Nod poets of Laputa, self-serving pataphysicians the bench is strewn with the problems of Gulliver La Senora arrives, shift changes, orders breakfast and this proceeds until siesta time the repairing of every social ill retiring into respective hammocks we are philosophers, possess our epigrams no siesta, no fiesta, tomorrow i swear a new and improved version the beach is safe now for white bucks scribbling in the sand while our feet are beyond and supine covered with flies, killing us did not the Beats do this San Blas 91 The Patient Stones