Manifesto for Charlie

In another time,
he had long, hippie
hair,
wore a metal taped Walkman
belting hardcore
and house.
He smoked hash and
philosophized,
with the boys on King,
where visions became
substance--
comic dark wings
and Red Skull
invaders.

A few too many
times he did
Danny's acid,
and landed in the ER
strapped down
to a
gurney.
They diagnosed him
as SCHIZO
and sent him to a farm.
Burke county in vasectomy bandages,
he picked raspberries
and made latch hook
pillows from
scraps.

His entire adult life,
has been spent in hushed
libraries,
working on his manifesto
about the innocence
of Charlie Manson.
Fifteen Big Chief tablets
filled to busting,
buzzing Thorazine bumbles
and slow drool
down his chin,
he sits alone once exhausted,
and reads Lovecraft
and Hawking.
Stoned gone
about Marvel,
all shield wielding
avengers,
sipping cherry slush
through gas station
straws.

He lives in a home
for the mentally disabled,
where he paces
the rickety planks
till 3.
His fat Calico atop
comics, and a fan
keeping time.
His Walkman is blaring
trip hop
or a Bach fugue,
the madness of his neighbors
drowned out
in the din.

His dad died last year,
so his only subsistence
is a check from
Unc' Sam
and some canned goods from
the Church.
He's afraid all the time,
that he'll starve
or die homeless,
but he's much more afraid
of CIA wiretaps
and Red Skull's
return.

You can see him trudging through town,
Sony athwart
Mast Store cap,
and he might wave
or he might just stare
at his shoes.

Inoculation of society's
Randian Hand,
believer in the goodness
of a black-hearted icon,
a weak sparrow
on the wing.
The torn mind
of a timid
mystic feeding on
First Baptist's
daily dose
of beans.