In Memorium for Captain Sullivan


For which we must pay a moment's tribute,
á tempo now, to Captain Sullivan,
whose watch through the slitted windows
at Park Station, under the pavillioned shadow
of Kezar, our lady Stonehenge packed SRO,
east of the sun, west of Larabareu,
after the old Haight theater,
well before the Straight,
before the Psychedelic Shop,
before the Free Clinic,
before Bill Graham and the Fillmore
but west of Sodom and Gomorrah;
before the church with the upside letters
dangling from the cracked marquee,

who stood tall in his best bars and blues,
beatific and inspired as Moses in receipt
of some stone tablets upon which the sermon
he and God had worked and reworked in many drafts
blazed out with such conviction for all to consider
as one blushed-rose thundered to the breaking point
while the temple crumpled around the news
that it was, as he said, "just a lot of
Sex, Drugs and Rock & Roll."
at first stunned and then exploded
in our much befuddled, Sandoz'd brains
the notion we were just out
for a little weekend relief

as we shuffled off to La Honda
from beach-front hospices and bunkers
in Richmond whites and Sunset Spanish comfort,
to negotiate right, not left, Bayshore turns
through a Sunday of liquid pines
and melted s'mores, unstoned until unpacked,
to walk backwards at Playland
(since removed to The HogFarm)
with the last remnants of the Gaskin regiment,

that the mounted park patrol might mistake
our sojourns into temporal insubstantiality
as little more than a bit of goofy horse-play
come to rest in the 23rd century, loitering
by the Laughing Lady at the Funhouse,
with a few too many corndogs under our belts,

that in the drown of a standing ovation,
on that bleak drizzle of the Sabbath morn,
Our Captain fell mortally wounded
when the world was shook to its foundations
and could never be the same, that became a roar
now risen, we stood as one thundering applause
to be later sliced, sorted and baggied

in small reusable parcels to the Free Clinic,
to the loft at the Psychedelic Shop
with its nightly previews of 'Reefer Madness'
- played as a loop until the film shredded -
to Emmett's Diggers, to Rochford playing
Raymond Chandler, To Janis playing the Straight,
and piroshki's going for 35-cents-a-pop
and Nureyev playing Icarus on our rooftops,

to the chapter at the end of the world,
along with its good Captain
who finally succumbed beyond wildest ambitions,
who retired, went mad and finally left
our earthly paradise somewhat west of the moon,
by his own hand rumor had it, The Chosen One,
our fallen angel, Prophet of the Gulls
propelling us to the Promised Land.

To you then, Captain Sullivan,
blessings and Kaddish prayers this day
from the children of the cradle
that went before the fall, with thanks
and our eternal regard for what we're on.



© 1989 red slider. All rights reserved.

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