At this moment I proclaim myself a drummer-poet.
At this moment when history is a trance,
an epiphany of marijuana.
Perched on the carpet of this flying saucer,
this silo of piano-notes,
I proclaim myself a combatant in the field of words.

In the acid-rock world flowing by,
having drunk the summer of my hopelessness
here in the field, Shiva lies, after smoking hash
under the moon's soft glare: I hear winged echoes
of his sleep.
I hack through the gateways of my body and enter those echoes.

The shastras of stupor grow under the eyelids:
You send the Vedic slokas surging like electric current
through your every home
Stillwater, at last I have woken up today to sing your song.

I:
drummer-poet,
percussionist of the damru,
wailing voice of the navel:
in an African beat, I find myself today.

America, my foreign drumbeats
shall proclaim this today:
I sing here to immortalise
the tender trees of your highways,
the tender trees that hide
and play tennis
in the shadow of your giant chemical plants.

Stillwater, 1972.