Into conscious
mechanization I
pour
into the fluid life
of a margarita machine
solid state
meandering
pulse
free to ripple
surge develop
ice cube
sugar electricity
spark enough
to blow our minds
to smithereens
weeping depression
melancholia
restricting life support
till visions
and breakfast
pull us all back
from the brink
of sanity
still breathing
pure magic.
He is Randall Rogers, visionary poet of the prairie. A cowboy, yea, a beatnik; a Beatnik Cowboy. He is an old young, sorry. Here he exhibits new work. More flashes in the pan. I hope the world, nay, you editor, approveth of seeth/something here. (Currently reading "Pilgrim's Progress") Adios! I kind of reworked these to work in booze but they are total virgins (never put out).
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