Its early morn, the sun crawling out of its bed,

I’m off to work with the hookers and junkies

nuns hustle by, there goes a Mercedes , there

goes a bum, I headed to India but landed at

the Gatwick with two sisters fawning over me,

there you go son, don’t worry , you’ll be okay,

night scenes of trams and a babble of languages,

outside my window is Granada, New Orleans,

Moscow, and the Tenderloin of Frisco; inside

I hear a saxophone sounds like its coming

from inside my hotel. Love Supreme, its

a Love Supreme, a long way from

the ashram, praying , getting holy ,

getting clean, my room, a 6×6 full

with fireflies, bats, cockroaches, praying mantis,

and spider friendly boys hanging on my mosquito

net , trapeze artists from the circus of life,

strangers come in, strangers go, this place

its not for them, not enough trips, not

enough acid to get you high, there

you felt something of what the mystics

talked about- stillness- suddenly

Im headed for Kolkata wanting the lust,

splayed out on the street with my

right foot snapped , that stillness I had

just left like a stock market crash,

drinking the days with nothing to do

singing the blues , a wail in the Bengali night,

my face already named, St.Kilda not so

different, misfits, the untidy unmentionables

that wander her streets like sadhus drinking

from their begging bowl , the broken angels of Grey

Street, a perfect place to be.