The blonde dreadlocked boy
On the path to Golden Gate Park
Pounded the warm December air
And raged against the bland sky,
His eyes tight meteors streaking
From passersby to sidewalk
To whatever lost high shadow
Loomed over his tattered life.
I wanted to pick up his pieces,
Take his wild face in my hands,
Tell him he would come down
From whatever he had taken
And all would again be well,
But his Hell was perennial,
As much a part of the Haight
As the graying ponytailed men
Turning away from this bad scene
To make their way up the hill
To the endless circle of drummers
Raising their rhythmic praise
Up to whatever maddening God
Could possibly demand
Such a bloody damned sacrifice.
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