Jessica Baker

Back in the city of angels but with a little more madness in my skin,

a little more beat to the rhythm pumping through my veins,

a glitter-bombed, Tibetan peach pie-eyed mermaid.


Wish I could bottle up the way the sunshine pierced the redwood treetops,

preserve the feeling of rose rewards, of roadside raspberries devoured crab-watching on unnamed coastal cliffs,

savor the succulent visions of the hysterical in Tenderloin, the rambling hippies praising the universe,

whose bodies operate grungy against the pastel paradise of painted ladies, asymmetrical,

whose ravaged hands hammer out drum-circle psychedelia while strangers spin in sacred spirals,

inspired by Haight Street temples, enshrined in endless crystals,

rhapsodizing god in all names and forms.


Abducted by an unceasing out-of-body experience, my spirit is still

choking down fernet between beetle-adorned bar walls,

stumbling, intoxicated by exultation, up and down tie-dyed hills,

singing infinite gratitude to our angel-headed hipsters.