Sign This, Please

There was book signing by some famous author
of culturally and socially relevant books

But, by the time I got there, the line was over
a hundred people long, ants waiting for a taste of

a processed sugar cube.

I walked down to a thrift shop for a sweater.
An American Buddha shopped for eyeglasses.

It was like I had stepped outside to meditate with
Ginsburg as ohhhhmmmmed for a new vision.

Down the street, in a dive bar, ordering beer,
multi-colored collars have drinks to “the moment”.

It was like having whiskey with Kerouac.
He wanted nothing more than to drive through Death Valley.

Getting through the Golden Triangle, avoiding the drug scene,
the backgrounds of junkies is as many as there are Platte rivers.

It was like being on one of Thompson’s necessary trips.
The weird definitely turned pro at that moment.

I stumbled into dank living room, maybe in a cottage.
Shelved books held tight and on a table the gin is gone.

It was like I had a cigarette with Carver as he told a million tales
before his first visible exhale.

Somehow a boxcar toke me to a Sasquatch sanctuary.
Smoke signals in the Pacific Northwest kept reality.

It was like smoking a feathered peace pipe with
Alexie, but the inhale didn’t seem quite right.

When the book signing by the culturally and
socially relevant author was done,

the people had returned back to their tombs.
Like hair that turns gray before it disappears.