Out With The Dead: A Poemoir

Pale blue bleeds the sky,
the eyes that bleed swept away by
a wave of hallucinogens. And it's
on: we send hacky sacks into
sidewalk drum circles and chants into
silence, skipping through tie-dyed
mourning hordes to whom soap and
water were not endemic.
What drugs gave was invincibility,
a orgon pulsing with every step,
an inalienable urge - no, right - to
find objects that had no business
being ours. Capturing the flag
became a glorious symbol of
what we weren't, and so we
set out, trudging up the hill,
tripping over logs (disguised as
bums). We the pulsing claimed
a golf green as if it were our own.
It was our moon landing, and
no country club could stop us.
Pin flags wrapped around
us like war kilts we scurried
down the hills, knowing replacements
would hang limply by the following
dawn; however, our stolen clothing
gave us a sense of hope.
All the moneyed country clubs could
not reverse our ineluctable Shivastic
nature, nor explain why a bottle of
cheap wine stood where a stick should be.
Buoyed by brownies laced with pot and
stem, we pool last dollars to buy roses
from an Iranian and proceed to
parade, to toss them at bongos and
homeless. Dreadlocks, we note,
retain rose petals quite well.
Fueled by Death's release, we
convulse, cradling our selves,
laughing like banshees. This is our
elasticity; this is our way.