As Hobo pondered his shady Natasha’s pregnant
speech (a-bob there alongside him in a cloud-
vaporetto, at the Gate’s peak) – behold, he
could see all the way to San Fran! – scintillant
opal beside the Pacific – banded with bridges,
shrouded in lamb’swool mist, arrayed by sun.
Heaven almost for bums like him – christened
to praise ye paradigm of each flighty snowbird
a little touched in the head by God’s raven-
claw. Fran, Francesco, Francisco, Francis...
padre of total self-divestment on the breast
of Everybird’s maker... wed to Povertà, even...
for unless you renounce all that you possess
you cannot be my disciple, he heard Someone
pronounce... & longed so to be! Enough to shun
insipid hectoring of life-pride, flesh-pot, eye-lust...
(whirled, profane). So poverello Hobo tried –
contemplating that contemplative template,
the liberating potentate of Give-It-All-Away.
& failed. His 57 greedy pilots (of a fogged-
in, insular, self-centered bay) rebelled – slunk
blindly off. & then Natasha spun around &
spoke. Grace’s the catalytic converter – or bend
it another way, the photosynthetic plonk – thanks-
giving builds on, just as cellulose branches out
from simple water & light to be shady oasis.
This is the power source, Hobo. Focus your
jerry-rig’d V – Don J’s hum-divin’ rain-be-troot.