Houston, We’re Synchronistic!

Sharing a joint with another ex-con,

            legitimate genius this guy

                        was. Versed in

            biographies of Whitey Bulger,

                        Dark Alliance by Gary Webb

            & Sandinista! I suppose one does

                        get a chance to catch up on

            reading in the pen,—

Dude got 25 years

            for distribution of Columbian cocaine—

                        flown into Texas on El Salvadorian

            air force planes

                        assisted by the CIA to fund

            contra fighters in Nicaragua.

Hell, guess ya might as well

            steal an education from

                        those who rule

            us! Or else

                        go on to accept one’s place

            in the grander

                        scheme of things.

Taken otherwise to passing on

            this parallel history

                        like an oral samizdat,

Having a chat on the riverfront

            across from Muhammad Ali

                        Center in Louisville—

            packing the unwanted

                        soup kitchen banana

            most generously bequeathed

                        to me

            by an out of work hoodlum—

He mumbles something about Backpage.com

            acting sketchy

                        as military grade aircraft

            fly over head,

& he swears as to the existence of an Illuminati—

            leaning against the base of a monument

                        to a formerly enslaved person—gee,

I do wonder,

            when did we abolish human trafficking

                        again? Why is

            the freest country on earth

                        supposedly,

            home to the world’s largest

                        prison population? Oh—

Yeah, they may’ve just now

            taken Backpage down, but then again—

                        where’s the investigation

            into the accomplices of Jeffery Epstein?

Tell me

            why do legions of the downtrodden

                        become so convinced

            there’s a hidden hand

                        in all coincidence?

Like runnin’ into ol’ wanderin’ Jake

            from Georgia,

                        say, and we drink Rolling Rock

            down by the railroad tracks

                        in Eugene—

            he’s just a teen, and dopesick on

                        the legacy of

            philanthropic Arthur Sackler,

But we ramble on

            shotgunning the aluminum cans like

                        veterans of a domestic Opium War

            inflicted by the rich onto the poor

Because—no—

            it doesn’t take a Wernher von Braun to see,

                        or countless government funded

            research projects suggesting that,

Maybe just maybe

            the War on Drugs was never really meant to be won. . .

                        perhaps exacerbating the problem—

            for profit—

                        was always part of the solution?

Or—as Tupac Shakur

            noted. The war on drugs is

                        a war on you and me!

            Still there’re those thinkin’ if

                        you talk about the ruling classes

            you peddle theories

                        of conspiracy,—but just ‘cause

You’re paranoid don’t mean

                        a tree ain’t fall in the woods—

It don’t mean

            there’s no such thing

                        as signification;

Only the demiurge,

            filling a void where God is dead.

Hitchhiking karma,

Their puppy chewing on

            the hotel room floor

                        at 5 in the morning—

Check out before it’s too late.

Barreling forth from Denver

            with diehard

                        Disney-heads

            belting tune after tune

                        from “I Wan’na Be like You”

            to “Under the Sea,”

                        blazing nonstop

            dispensary kush,

                        she with her eyes on the road;

            he turns to me and goes. ‘So, there’re these

                        beings called the Anunnaki. . .’

Uh, stranger things

            have happened, I guess—or

Maybe out of tens of billions of

            potentially inhabitable planets

                        in the Milky Way galaxy alone,

We’re merely some isolated phenomenon

            in an otherwise meaningless cosmos? Clearly—

                        as this matter itself appears to dissolve

            into extradimensions

                        like the watery void of Abzu;

Where the bizarrely irreducible

            quality of Imagination

                        may in fact be

            a prime mover of the universe—

Consciousness—riding

            as if thread into

                        the scaly waves

            of a Great Winged Serpent

                        of the highway,

            screeching passed St. Louis—on

                        into Indianapolis

Where they drop me off,

            top spun like the Orphic egg—

                        & I get a bus to Cincinnati,

            & think about

                        poems—

End up right

            back where I started,

                        like Zeno’s arrow.

Asking the same old, almost tautological

            questions like, who

                        killed Danny Casolaro?

Still the same old,

            same old peripatetic

                        trekking worryingly

            through the crack-ruins of a ghetto—

                        proves nothing—except

            everything in my own,

                        empirically verifiable

            little world; where

Even with a capital T,

            there’s massive disconnect between the way

                        things really went down

            and the official story—

Especially when

            at this very moment,

                        right as we speak,

A journalist is being tortured.

            Deprived of his mind

                        23 hours a day

            in the solitary hell

                        of a prison cell in the U.K.,

            but stands accused

                        of no crime

            none

Other than his adamant belief

                        in the rights

            of all of us

To know—

            just to know, what our governments

                        have actually been up to—