some poem

After traversing the hospital-monster 
to see democracy-in-traction,
and placing his bouquet of blue-roses 
above the fluid-droid in the growing anarchy garden, 
old Soulful Sinful walks down Perishing Ave 
past views of blue hills
picking bopped-poppies from the plethora of flora
pausing for the bitter-sweet beauty of bone-yards 
and sweetly-strummed alley-way echoes of “either/or”

He's headed for the coffee-house 
on the 3rd floor of The Freak Museum 
where dapper, oft-spectacled humanzees 
play conversational chess 
while mentally fleshing out charicature-studies 
of each other’s over-sized craniums, 
or else they drool demonically-distracted 
by the long-legged, sable charms 
of iced mocha-sipping fem-flies 
on the canvas-barnacled wall

But the closer to The Freak Museum
Soulful Sinful gets,
the more he's stalked with regret
and when he finally stands before
the electric marble promenade,
he passes on: 

first walking,
now running downward into 
the tangled tawdriness of East L.A.
past block and block of Asian grocery marts,
omni-present liquor stores, 
past thistle-grown streets
and fallen American women with angelic smiles,
past walls and bill-boards sprayed
with bullets and vast colorful mai-tai melded montages
selling everything and nothing

Finally, he reaches a cool-blue door
on the ramshackle second floor
of a swirling, colorful eye-sore...
he knocks softly, then twice more,
before being let in 
by Janus the black-balloon

things will be different now