It’s vital that everyone concentrate on bongs,
Homemade resin-filled wonders that make jazz
On AM radio, pump the other resins of air,
In the rainy radio night.
What is Radio? TV is omniscient, fulfillment of the cavity century,
Pumping phlegm into the bored lungs of Middle-class,
Protestant rash, Orange Counties of great Americans.
The piano still rules.
The only instrument that makes jazz and dope
Take on mathematical qualities of discreteness,
A collapsing of the nth dimension,
Whose feeble parameters of ancient loin
Babble incoherently about the post-catholic stars,
And the astrology of fat and wondrous desert prophets --
Yet this collapse, this nth space we search for,
Can this deliver us from the guarded animal of our self?
Well the dope is wearing heavy on my hair,
This jazz is dull pizza music for Barry Goldwater
And his golden showers of brandy, butt, and bombs,
Insignificant to me – the man most go on the field,
Or chained to a blinding computer terminal,
He must stay company,
Until this poem becomes old.
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