dear sal, it's fine blue-skied day here on the Great Plains and the plane of my spirit, though hardly great, is gliding over the green-leaved trees, the graffitti-graced brick walls, the bottle-strewn streets and the broken lives of the city below. while the up-draft lasts, i'm delta-winging this eight and a half by eleven pen and ink on bond yer way via hyped-up space. Peace and may your innumerable offspring always sing praise to the Great One.

the Future is like a god to usit does not answer

everyone i love is there
where i await to be born
ringing in glory
but no one will pick up the receiver

this is my message to the Future:

call me back
as soon as you conceive me...
can you hear what i am saying here?

i called collect;
no one wants to accept the charge

the voices of the Future say:
let the Past
ring up the Past.
your politicians misled us
your economists enslaved us
why should we listen
to the words
of your poets?