When Christ's blood sped through

the whirlled of the bodhi
at the moment of communion,
knowing the salvation which flutters like doves
over us all white and slim
taking with it all that we desire to have

let us break the bread
and know the message of the Bible
refers to the growth of the spirit and not
the had stone of the Law,
people must grow and give
in the electric dazzling of night

the poor in corners seek refuge
they seek God and love him
and find comfort in the spirit
but not in the starving set
searching for the latest fix of coke
and wandering aimless
wandering what has happened to America
and why the world looks like ice-blocks of
non-emotion, bursting forth its bubblegum logic
saying really superficial things
that mean nothing but for a moment.

There is he, he was looking for Pushkin
he was looking for books
waiting for the white man or yellow man to help him,
fell in love with a sympathizing white woman
who can no longer stand his presence,
wanted to achieve greatness in writing
having heard so much of literary salons or clubs
finds only loneliness and dead comfort
finds himself deserted and unwanted
once they find out
he is not going to write what they want him to write.

and her, wandering the streets once again,
searching for the latest boyfriend
whose ethics have gone down the drain,
looking for the brief escape that will stop the suffocation,
wandering the streets, searching for happiness,
seeking the quick fix, the drink, the drug
or the soda,
some alteration of mood that makes life bearable
under the moon and under the sea
looking for mermaids to kill.