Poetry
Pope Loco Sandia XXIII
Frisco
I puff away at my Havatampa
Watching the smoke drift lazily across
The sinking sun.
I thank Great God
and think of Frisco.
Ah, Frisco,
Before Marjorie,
before this desert air,
before my decaying lungs,
before the spherists burnt my house
and replaced the trailer's cedar with corrugated tin.
Ah, Frisco,
Long days in the hangar
and at night runnin' with the Joshua Norton Cabal.
The opium dens
and sweet, sweet Sun Xia.
Now that girl knew how to live
on a flat Earth.
Ah, Frisco.
Driving her hills,
Sun's hand upon my thigh.
Trolleys overflowing with the stench
of beatniks and hairy hippies.
Across the bridge,
The jazz clubs of Oakland.
The sunsets melting golden into the Pacific.
The Havatampa is nearly gone
and night has descended.
I'm growing cold
and Jackie is calling.
And I thank Great God.
Grass grows up as feathers drop from the sky
This poem appeared in Church on Thursday, Issue #10, October 2003.
