I was taking in the Haight

with a guest from L.A.

Wearin underwears

like a hat on my head.

The spirit of the sixties

was all around



From high on Hippie Hill

we surveyed the sacred ground.

Covering hallowed ground.



Well, I was South of the Slot

by closing time

My black leather chaps

afloat the crystalline tide.

I wheelied down an alley

that shined with lube



Checked the ghost of Sylvester

by the light of the man on the moon.

Covering hallowed ground.





When daybreak broke

I hit the beach but found no sand,

though Saints Peter and Paul

were close at hand.



A screamer bared his knife

and drew a fleet of Black and Whites -

a book he d written, way back when,

had changed my life.


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