Oh, Saint Michael


Carlson Vicenti

Oh, Saint Michael,
I can't find a car.
Not Akar, the bearded white man with the nappy head wrapped in a blue bath
towel. The wanna be "sick" that forgot his true culture after an overdose of acid
at a Dead show in Philly, PA. Who wound up kissing the ass cheeks of the great
plastic idol, Iky Poo Poo, stolen from the Hari Krishnas. That horrible day
when all the monks across California, by disaster or miracle, spilled Clorox
bleach in their laundry - orange frocks and nasty habits - and all turned white
and they took it as a holy sign. So they put rings in their noses and wore tight
black leather, moved to San Fran, and walked hand in hand on the Wharf, rip-
ping farts that couldn't be heard because of the heavy traffic behind.

Oh, no. Saint Michael.
I'm looking for the smog cars, the ones that give me the pleasure of waiting
fifteen minutes to walk forty paces. The kind I fear will bust my head open by a
stroke of good luck and bad timing. The one like Delores drives. You know her?
The coke-snorting pseudo-intellectual psychic healer. The one I met in a bar.
She saw my aura, and I asked her if that was some kind of yoga bull. She sensed
my inner anger, so I told her to go to hell, or give me some of that white hippy
sexual healing she offers Skins, because she lost her identity to Wonderbread
and Cheerios, or was it that accident on Cerrillos? She said having sex with
Skins would take her back four lives ago when she was a great medicine man in
the lower Bronx, where she was born behind Mario's pizzeria to Maria, the
overworked Italian girl making a delivery.

Oh, no. Saint Michael.
I'm looking for the fast cars that have four crushing wheels and a demonic
engine, and screwed up dead drivers from all over the world, and mental states,
seeking fake karma in the barren facade of Santa Fe
Do you know what I mean?

Go on now, Saint Michael, drive

From Neon Powwow edited by Anna Lee Walters, Northland Press.
© 1993 Carlson Vicenti
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