A week before tomorrow a
past life found me in a smoke free bar on 
life's boulevard
watching FIFA soccer on a fifty two inch
flatscreen.

I finished my 
extra dry martini with two olives
stirred, not shaken and 
left for the be-bop time of
smokey jazz clubs in 
dark basements below the 
sad city of lights.

The horn man blew his
wailing melodies to our despondent generation who 
gave their souls to words and sutras . . . 
we dressed in black.

Our deep dialectics were 
concerned with slow time when the  
tribe of hedonists gathered
for alcohol
for drugs
for sex
for pleasure in the cold room flat above the
shop keepers shop.

Our poetry played the 
crazy rhythm of the jazz free
discourse that fed us our 
left over life
free of mammon's rules.

I returned from my fantasy
past life trip to an extra dry martini with two olives
shaken, not stirred and FIFA soccer
still nil - nil on a 
fifty two inch flat screen.

And I went home to
my cold room flat above a  
shop keeper's shop to 
write a new sutra of 
that time when
life was still free.