living is easy

no red wall.

no red button free-fall.

lives mattered without malice

without protocol

all lived by what appeared to be simple means

ranches, capes, basic joists

dreaming the American dream

nothing trite about what we understood

we had more than most

most did not give would they could

saving the earth by way of the dime bag

no pale ale

just bong hits and bonfires

redemption found when a dollar had been given

on Sundays as a basket passed

too young to understand Nixon

old enough to mourn John

we were discovering Lady Chatterlay’s Lover

our bodies were ourselves

living among bathtub Mary’s and American flags on the front lawn

set in stones that were thrown

‘you were right…or, you were wrong’

i can remember hearing of Elvis

where he was

how he had been found

to my young mind i pondered…

‘how quickly life can be upstaged without a sound’

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Contemplating Sideways and Steve McQueen

Contemplated sideways…The hounds of hectic thought, kept me up all night.  Slanting and aside…Came accompanied with sky?  Why so blue?  Tied together with…What makes dragon’s blood?  And, the myth of Elvis!  

If my mind were a jukebox…It would only play my favorite song.  

Something about…

‘Where have all the heroes gone?’

I worked this, kink in my mind’s wagon, out years ago.  Such as agreeing to live like a Tilt-A-Whirl.

Spinning in the same circle.  But forever finding a new way to enjoy the thrill!

We got rock stars in the White House
All our pop stars look like porn
All my heroes hit the highway
They don’t hang out here no more

You, Beautiful Boy…John Lennon.

john 1

 

Had it been a colder winter, would Vicki been more aware of the day, the time…the shift of wind, to the subtle change of the earth’s emotions?  A typical day, no matter the season had been a hippie rainbow, splashed with a tie dye of skeleton, neon green and pink…

Typical?  No, no, fuckin’ way!  The day played out in the 13 year old’s, tainted by peace and love, screw the establishment…, mind.  This time though, it had been  recorded in tears.  Similar to looking at that larger than life, black-light, poster of Elvis, in a pantsuit…one toke shy of a good high!elvis

Sitting, lotus style on the shag carpeting of Lynn’s bedroom, attempting to really understand the true meaning of…

 

Terry Jack’s; Seasons in the Sun

 

A wonderful song about dying, the rebirth of spring and the friends we leave behind.

At the time, as two rebel freaks adverse to conformity…Vicki and Lynne only thought of the song as a sad good-bye to their childhood.  As it was certain, once High School began, the end poetically and physically, would be near.

Yet, none of that silly lonely life felt by many of similar breed and congruent thought mattered…For down below, in the bowels of the ancient home, sat, Lynne’s brother, Eddie.

Eddie, posted upon a stool made of stolen milk crates, smiled a mad-dog grin…as he and his buddies, banged out

Stairway to Heaven!

It hadn’t been that the band played poorly.  It wasn’t that the four mop-heads didn’t somehow resemble Muppet Puppets.   The simple fact had been, those fools just were not cool!  Anyway you cut it!  Those white boys had no rhythm and certainly, no style!

Vicki and Lynn cranked that hot pink record player.  So often had the needle been manually brought back to go that…well…one verse repeated itself over and over and over again.

Papa
Please pray for me
I was the black sheep of the family

No matter the loudness of the house.  No matter a child’s play at bettering the current situation.  No matter, the pleas, the tears and the questions…the ‘just give me some truth,’ could not be tucked away.

John Lennon, the prince of peace, the maker of all love, the heart and soul of a collective few living in a small New Hampshire city, tucked away in the middle class, had been killed the night before.

It had been a Monday night, 10:50 p.m., 1980!

John 2

The next day, with songs cranked, with outrage pouring out of every Yukon Jack bottle, with Vicki and Lynne attempting to drown their fears in the therapy of music…with all this…a handful of mourners headed for the capital.  One of these walking tributes to all that John Lennon could Imagine, had been Lynne’s mother.  Decked out with beaded vest, bell bottom Tough Skins…faded just right, and a pair of knee high, ‘knock me down and show me a good time’ black leather boots: Lynne’s mother made Stevie Nicks look like a girl scout in training.

And, it was on this day, Tuesday, December 9th, 1980…between the blue grass music being tortured by an all bad male band, and, the young ladies quietly paying respect through lyrics…Lynne’s mother lay entombed in her bedroom to distraught to go to work.

Odd, years later, Vicki would visit the Orpheum theater in Boston to see,  the Plastic Ono band.  She would be high on technicolor and acid!  She would not remember much of that night.  She would remember, Yoko’s acknowledgement of her long lost husband.  And, she would remember that day…a handful of years back…

That day, when within her little world of Peace, Love and Happiness, she learned of  new emotions.  Terror and pure hate!  To the current day, Vicki could not bring herself to read, ‘Catcher in the Rye’, she could not capitalize on anything relating to John’s death.  No new and recently found works of Lennons‘…posthumously!

Fading to black in the very back row of the Orpheum theater, weirdness abound, with necklaces made of Barbie Doll parts, Hippies zoned out on weed, the sweet smell corroding the walls…a simple verse is all that Vicki could recall…

Goodbye to you
My trusted friend

We’ve known each other since we were nine or ten
Together we’ve climbed hills and trees

john 3

Post Script: Bathroom Meditation

The most basic of instincts can provoke our greatest thoughts!
The most basic of instincts can provoke our greatest thoughts!

She is up there with me.  Being over fed.  Thinking herself into havoc…chaos, laced with bedhead.

What is she thinking?  Nothing, absolutely, nothing, in here fits right!

I love you?  I love you?  Pardoning the misdemeanor and miscues.

Somewhere between Elvis and Stonewall.  Stuck behind Mr. Milk and crying Indians.  An eighties voice of reason rambled roses and ranted…begin again!  Mercy, mercy, me.  She conveyed in disjointed speech.

‘I have been listening to thoughts with poetic endings…since your soapbox could preach.’

Remember ’81 when they told you to ‘…take your style and all the while.  Take the hand Me downs out of the closet…and place them out on the street.’

Call her a psychedelic mage.  Or, a flashback sage.  I always stop and pay heed to the raving tales.  Tainted and obscured the imagination…never runs stale.

Psychotic, obsessive plus neurotic.  Days plus years after birth.  My rendition of her a bit strange.  Currently, my house of freak…does not feel the same.

With the stifled side of my street clean since the Clap On, Clap Off rage.  I now know I needed my Forrest Gump stage.  So tonight when Google books of faces play.  The quietness of the throne will call my name.  All be it meditations on what it is to be sane.

IN the house of the Blonde

the Buddha dog who's mind is everywhere but nowhere equally
the Buddha dog who’s mind is everywhere but nowhere equally
Ruthie inquired: If I dig you correctly…I mean to say, if I get the skinny on the low down; one who wishes to obtain perfect wisdom should study the way things are in the world and they should practice daily perfections but yet, believe them to be un-real!  For that matter, what I read on the internet and see in my own backyard…I should not pay homage to the silliness or write about them or make them false gods…per say?
Mr. Buddha replied:
Just so, Ruthie.  Right on Momma!  One who contemplates life or being in a conformed or not conformed manner is now an expert.  He or she can go about the world pointing out the ‘truth’ to others.
to get rid of an enemy one must consider him a delusion or one's self as delusional
to get rid of an enemy one must consider him a delusion or one’s self as delusional
For example, do you see that gun over there?  It is not real.  Nor is the fear that some non follower of the truth will take it and pop you right in the ass because you tied your shoes the wrong way.
To show these non believers the truth words are not always needed.
Ruthie questioned:
But is this just for the wise and knowledgeable?
“No, quite the opposite,”  replied Mr. Buddha.
“This is open to all, even the dull witted and to those who lack medication.  The door is open to all but the one that is lazy and ignorant.  For example, look at yourself, Ruthie.  You fell blindly in the idea of un-attachment and are now looking down the barrel of a gun!”
Thought for the RandomwordbyRuth day:
An empty mind will travel swiftly!
If Elvis has left the building so shall you
If Elvis has left the building so shall you