Bert the broker, with spinal curvature, was bent but not yet broken, staring down a suicide view from his seventh floor too-small cube, cowered like a Cratchit, and worried about the hatchet.

When like a bat out-a-heaven, Abel the guardian angel appeared, perched on the ledge, his face pressed and peered. Upon seeing his charge, Abel sniffed and sniveled, drooped his tie-dye wings, swung low his sweet chariot head, and his Jesus hair fell like final curtain.

Things went no better at Bert’s tentative tenement.

The wife was one Roly Poly Olga, a two pound bologna in a one pound sack, her shack shaking flesh in too small shoes, and a sour-mash whiplash wine-soak tongue.

“She’s good in bed,” Bert weakly said, but her sight sent Abel on a flying crying three jigger hankie honker jag.

From the other gloom-doom-room whined two sonny brat game boys, a booger wall beside the bunk, with each and every phrase begun, “I want. I want! I WANT!” Poor Bert could only hound dog hang his chicken gizzard head, enough said, as Abel turned out inky torrents in octopussy tears.

The following day, in the dim new light of a cool air pub over frosted suds, Abel orated the obvious with, “I’m here to serve thee, but Holy Moses, man, you’re big-time bumming me out!”

To which Bert replied, “Ditto, vice versa, Xerox, or some such.”

“Lookie here Hodad, it seems we’s on the same page and I got me a scheme, a California Dream!”

So,

Abel the Angel, feeling his quite rightly oats, flapped his mighty tie-dyes, and conjured a grill-grinning Woodie! With a “Cowabunga!” cry, our heroes, properly stoked and toked, burned a blacktop tube clean to Malibu. There, they grooved away their earthbound days, beach boy bumming in flower burst baggies, with beau coos of busshy haired, bikini clad, board waxing babes.

Life is Endless Summer.

08/16/2005

Author's Note: A wigged out goofed up prose poem.

Posted on 08/17/2005
Copyright © 2026 David Hill