April 17 by The Running Son
we’d just peaked
on med grade mescaline.
it was epic, oakland coliseum
and dylan played a half set
then fell off stage. jerry was hard to read
as ever chin resting on his chest
trying to remember that set played
back in seventy six – the terrapin days
before reagan danced ‘cross his grave.
i swear i could feel it. but christ
i’d seen some weird shit tripping and women
trickled down from willits
and napa and the whole emerald triangle
and i had so much to tell.
the light was amber emerald and the shadows
when tents began falling all around,
between the whirlers everything scattering
and falling down and nothing mattered anymore
but the music, and i knew there was no end
to this if we wanted and sang it in gibberish
like a good ole reagan boy in the afterglow
of greatest show i’d ever known,
spinning fractal until twilight
like a dervish.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.