you are a God

and tonight
you are a God
or a Roman Catholic priest
with a small dog on your lap

instead of an innocent child waiting for a father-figure.
you dream of riding a white horse in
the woodlands of upstate New York,
having fled the midtown scene
because you were down on your cultural luck.
you are NOT a naked Allen Ginsberg
descending an ornate stairway with Peter
to greet an irate Gordon Liddy,
who would soon leave empty-handed,
laughing all the way to the bank.
in the morning, you are noticed:
wearing a new psychedelic beret
with slender, sparkling strings of golden beads
dangling from your neck,

smiling like a Cherokee with wise eyes and an insomniac heart,

resembling the most dangerous man in America
surfing chaos
marveling at grains of sand on a fantastic beach,

running for governor of California,
singing autographs for the unclothed members of a lost Berkeley tribe
and praying with your alter ego friend, Jim,
who said his real name is Timothy Leary.
he would soon donate his brain to medical science,
which he did.

you moved quietly to the Taos Pueblo,

married Juanita, a native Indian woman

and tonight

you are a God.