The Beckwith Blues

I shake Beckwith’s hand.

It’s limp. Barely given.

I hate it not to be met.

The man presents a redeeming presence

That rides the waves of beneficent virtue.

He can’t even shake my hand.

I see him over the years.

Minister of light and vibration

Recognized for his secular church of foo and hustle.

A friend of mine once said,

“If you want to pick up women

Go to his church

And wait until after the mass”

I see him over the years.

Funny that he never seems to change.

His cornrow hair remains the same.

His clothes unchanged. Colors purposefully vague.

Style so secular and mediocre

That you can never see the outline of his body.

He looks distant and stoned.

Preaching the gospel of divine vibration.

Playing the conman’s trick of, “I know. You don’t”