In nineteen hundred sixty five

the planets wobbled out of orbit,


red-winged blackbirds chanted Hindi

in fields of mountain flowers and loco weed,


peace huddled under army surplus blankets

on haiku killsides,


big busted broad bottomed hipple girls

with hirsute mystic armpits and moonshoot eden eyes


sprouted in enchanted woods, cooing mantras,

simmering potions, humming the wind,


danced without music, naked and spicy

under tie-dyed peasant skirts,
hunted lost goddesses behind

no trespassing signs on deserted farms.


A pill on their tongues,

indian braclets jangling,


they led us barefoot into new gardens

on the other side of the interstate,


yes on their lips, yes to everything,

marking the places we shared the universal Ah


with tattooed cosmic signs,

smiling even as we stumbled away,


having no clue the glad gifts

they sprinkled over us in acid bright midnights


would be squandered so recklessly,

no premonition the long stemmed buds


they scattered along the unforgiving streets

would burst into candleflame, blossom into fists.



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