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.