The Bus

Garcia is dead
and my dream of running from
this to vend grilled cheeses
may not pan

out. This fence
is more than barbed. It houses
a strict sentinel.
Who can

reach the bus?
They had freaks as
fun peers to break
them free.

In fact, dull
friends could be
overhauled through a process
of dosing.

That was rehab
then. In 1967 I was
eight and aging toward
summers

of responsibility. Now
I'm panhandling a
Dionysian second. It
should be

free and already mine.

Some diggers are dead.
Good deed and digging myths
carry them.

I need a myth.
This chosen myth I
missed through discordant
pulsings

Further rests in
Kesey's yard. My
mind's in morgue. Summon
pranksters

to board joy
onto this night sky
and I'll live up
to myself.