Back in Chico
on a living Sunday morning
the bums
are on the move
great upheavals
mortal indecision
they shuffle their
exponential
weight
their Nikes
strained
build pequot
their setting sun
t-shirt dirty
words tattooed
in worn ink
on the necks and thighs
who these
venal clowns
the rest are ambient
trust fund thoughts
and
hardscrabble punks of
glycerin advantage
time to distribute
the bok choy
we never
got rich
turning old stones
with rotten moss
over
and the writhing cover
shifts in
the relentless moonlights
makes our weak hands sweat
the fingers
grown long
by rough pressure
the grasp
a final
wet whisper
sounds of clenching
travesty
transcendence
an old man
touches
the smoggy sky
an orchard 1970s
revelation
regular was leaded
and the bums
chanted modern mantras
in boss baritons
in just
one
a frantic falsetto
jesus freak
with blonde dreadlocks
and eyes that would soften
and
the distant music
of a cathedral
where the next
spirit animal
will be sacrificed
for the common good
