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Baudelaire’s Scarf
belting out
crazy meditations
on a plastic typewriter
burning hallucinations
the motorway’s lites
stretch in a blurred row
into the uncertain morning
F. sleeps on the sofa
spent the whole nite tripping
saw the sun rise
from high in the branches
of a tree in the park
returned suffering the last vestiges
of acid vision in & out
of his own mind his scarf pale green
(Baudelaire’s) around his neck
like a remainder of opium smoke
a dragon’s tail around his sleeping
Caucasian face
meantime I take a walk downtown
for food past unreal offices
spring the trees spotted
with reality blossoms stupid
drunken poems float thru my throat
at eternity’s health food shop
for a 50c glass of sour
grapefruit juice
on my way back buy a hamburger
solar energy & make it home
to the woman ‘in my life’ who
I take for granted
becomes mysterious not poetry
or vision just a woman
in red slacks her hands flow outwards
© Bob Orr
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