Like Dandelion Clocks

Around how many corners lurking on sanity's fringe
can asphalt stretch out in a postmodern mosaic wasteland?
Crumbling concrete edifices gulped up by the wind
sacrifice immortality to arrogant, rigid uncertainty.

A plotting cabal brews up a cannibalistic aroma.

I don't want no
hangin' judge
elected President

Hand me that red bandanna -
please -
it has Che's face-print
still on it.

Machiavelli lives,
The Prince's rank
fallen to mere Republican.

George Bush plays checkers,
he loves to say, "King me."
John McCain plays Risk,
conquest's game: world domination.

I keep slipping off
to 1971, driving along
PCH at midnight,
radio blaring
All Things Must Pass;
slipping off
to 1972, sitting-in
the ROTC building;
slipping off
to my Venice Beach
open door policy:
walk-ins welcome
to '71 freaks.

Slipping off
seems more real.

Liquid castles frozen
in time clutch aspiration
right out of the sky
only to drift
like dandelion
clocks.