Apollo was a Hipster

for Anthony Kiedis


the lotus flower blooms in April, kindness, from the lowest table,
cases closed, suitcases open with
voyagers across the ocean and caucus members
who talk in hexes, making love while making exes—causes for a generation,
toppled by a swift creation

lovers hang from tallest towers, highest spires and smokestack
scours—lime and lemon-scented scaredy cactus—doctors
with no conscious practice with and without

with no reason, men dressed up as men of treason
1 lamp 2 lamp red lamp blue, instead,
the bugle, from Madeleine Sue’s sticker fridge, a suburb
notion, contrasts with this witch’s potion in the shade tree
glasses broken and bread and books and a fashion token

spoken word slings up the cow—age reversed the few now bow
to a sky—we bleed all night now to see the fear beneath our fright
now now dark night moon too dim to see what our destiny might be
so smear ourselves and smear our friendship
by god if so collective endship

hunker down to Tinkertown—out through the mess
we’ll wear the crown to see above this ugly love in front of eyes
our minds to shove inside this normal head to bed to sweat
and fret away the wedded townhouse wife
of a pluralist nation—Apollo’s word reaches the station—
too tired too wired too muddily mired

in case of truth the sons we sired—fantasy hipster with differences
hidden, child of earth, your mask unbidden!

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