We went to a bar. Discussed new dimensions
for the writing of words and making of books.
Shuffled thoughts like cards, and suddenly
he threw the deck out.
"We're still building pyramids for the Pharoahs."
He was getting weepy. I looked where he looked.
New buildings going up, old crumbling piers.
Men hauling lines and rigging gear on ships.
A huge crate was landed on deck.

"Still building pyramids," he flew on.
He downed another drink, popped a pill for
his stomach, and joked from the tension and
incongruities of working for a wage, working as a poet.

Sky falling into the bay.
Buildings contradicting the heavens.
He took another pill.
"Man," he said, rolling his eyes, swilling a drink,
"I must be the only hippie in the world
who has to take anti-acid pills."