Coming up fast on forty,
I'm grateful for old hippies,
their bushy manes
flowing down their backs
in graying ponytails.
They are a national treasure
in their homemade tie-dyed t-shirts,
the original sandaled boys of summer,
back when a Birkenstock
stood for something
besides Yuppie pseudofashion sense...
They've answered the Big Question
with a hearty
"Hell, Yes"
and they are sexy
in their 100% natural cotton
self-acceptance.
American originals,
They wouldn't even hang themselves
with a Rush red tie.
On the Road with life
true sons of Dharma bums,
karmically darling,
cosmically cool,
they've known Joni,
Mary Jane, and Peggy Sue
in the Garden
and wandered serenely
in the purple haze
with Dylan and Jerry.
No tricky dicks,
they know what groovy means.
Tuned in and turned on,
They are comfortable to be around,
fit like your favorite pair of worn blue
jeans,
Accept your body the same way.
and somehow you can't feel old around them.
Goddess bless old hippies,
send them peace and a piece
homebrew and a pipe too.
I forget...does LSD
stand for Laidback Sexy Dude , or what?
I get kind of psychedelic
rapping poetry with
my buddies, Terry and Mad Alex,
those spaced Margin men,
aliens invading conventionality,
they'd rather make the scene
than be taken to your leader
though, hey, if he wants to drop by
and jam...bring a drum
and sit in. they're cool with that.
These are kind of mellow, kind of wild,
open minded universal beat babes,
playing hopscotch with their inner child.
Happy to read hip hop jazzed poetry to you
by candlelight,
willing to drink wine out of the jug
when you forget the cups.
Stand-up bass heartpluckers,
those crazy dumb saints down on the Margin
rock me like a mill train
rocketing through,
making the tracks bounce,
blowing the whistle
as loud and long and deep
as they want to blow.
Keep your repressed mildew-class boys
in monogrammed navy sweaters.
My Deadhead lover's a trip.
magical mystery tour guide,
knows that free love is an imperative,
a call to action, the true flower power;
lay him down and let him do his stuff
and oh my my
the spice, the love season
a little salt and pepper
down there provides;
old hippies sure can cook,
boil you down like a rich stock.
They are a grace
and, serendipity, they smell like men,
not warring perfume ads in GQ.
Openly randy, unabashedly virile,
they understand why
you need to brush and braid
and let you play with their hair
in rampant, unrepentant sensuality.
Mom's tightass Puri-titanic culture
warned me a life ago about
going out with a boy
whose hair is longer than mine.
No problem,
Old hippies are marinara men,
saucy and bold,
we're staying in
and I am growing my hair out.
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