Wednesday, April 22, 2015

6637. SOME SOUL-FELT DIGGER

SOME SOUL-FELT DIGGER
(aug. 1967)
I passed home on my way home last night: never
even knew it was there. Cat on a hot tin roof, and
the lights in the canyon were yellowed. My friend
on seventy-first street lent me his girlfriend for the
night. After I figured everything out, it went all right.
This here is the place we first had Doreen laughing:
the candle-seller and the book-guy, both with their
big tables, stayed out here way past dark. I wrote
down their names to send them some food. Fifty 
years ago, about, all this Diggers stuff was done on
east fourth instead -    there were three rooms filled 
with free clothes, hippie kids were everywhere; incense
and peppermint, that kind of crap. The funniest thing
I remember  -  and I was only 17  -  were the clothing
rooms where all the free clothes were tended to by girls
who wore none. The digger girls, somehow and why,
were always naked, always -  that's how they lived, 
some oath they'd taken to stay close to Divine, or
something. Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind.

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