Somewhere in the cool mist of my nothingness, I fell victim to my own showgirl attitude. That even stockings rip on a good night. Now, being male and having a strong sense of my own flexible testosterone image, I put my salad fork down and admitted my weaknesses as to the watered down version I’ve had about myself for most of my life. Am I really a 61- year - old surviving member of the generation that played little brother and sister to the Hippie Movement?
Or did the days just lumber past under dark
clouds of social metamorphosis? Who’s that Johnny on your windshield calling
you to join his movement where no movement exists? Who’s that girl with her
body unwrapped so you can long for the tie-die mini-skirt wonders that lie
beneath her VW bug? What happened to her when the roses bloomed outside her
window and then, when she woke up, there was an old woman’s face pleading with
her from the mirror. There’s no
dance left Baby. Those blacklight poster marches are all gone and meaningless
in a world that only mirrors long gone reefers.
That’s right. All
that’s left is a truck full of monkeys throwing coconuts at the banana
plantation while baboons play look at my dada lip explosion. And you’re so
stupid that you believe everything they say. I just have one thing I’d like to
say: After watching humans throw bricks, throw rocks, throw teargas canisters,
light buildings on fire, houses on fire, cars on fire, clothes on fire, light
themselves on fire. March up the street down the street, yell slogans, shoot
each other, kill leaders, Make laws, change those laws, flip off the man, call
people pigs, riot, scream and generally waste sixty years fighting. Knock over
statues, insist on their rights, grow their hair, shave their hair, write
protest songs, write protest books and learn to hate each other’s cultural
differences… How the hell did cookies get smaller?
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