A poem I wrote back in college while flying high on peyote one night, circa 1972 or thereabouts.
Wails in the Halls of Laundry. A Slap On the Ass and I'm born again. (Full title. Too many charactors for the OS title allowance.)
Note that God holds out his hand, and heed the whistlestops.
I spoke to Jesus through a cloth of thinly veiled marginal thoughts.
"Mankind" he said, "is cloning around. Self causation is his goal."
I refuse to be my father in a world given over to Christmas shopping.
Or, if you prefer, the Avett Brothers performance of "Laundry Room" at the 2010 Bonneroo Music Fest in Tennessee.