In those days it seemed like there was this euphoria that undergirded everything
like I might be able to dig in the right place and find a pool that was essence of bliss
or I might peel away a flimsy wall and find a divine glow shining there
where the two-by-fours should be…
if I could tune the radio to just the right station I’d hear the angel’s singing.
My favorite thing about drinking wasn’t being drunk,
My favorite thing was the later-time
when the mellow remnants of a buzz clung on to me…
My favorite thing about being stoned was being stoned, really stoned, knocked-on-our butts stoned…
what I really relished was the aftermath:
when my thoughts were just begining to return to a semblance of obedience
when walking wasn’t so much an act of the will
a state of being that Simon and Garkfunkel described so elequently as:
Feeling GroovyWe had this place that wasn’t much but our everything.
A drainage ditch that lead into some kind of tunnel beneath the street
We’d taught ourselves not to think too hard
about what the puddle was beneath our feet.
Our eyes became anachronisms quickly in that place.
but We always new where to stop.
and Somebody would pull out a flute,
one of the clay, circular ones
the kind you buy at Renaisance faires.
And we’d breathe to the almost rythmn of that half-song.
Sometimes somebody would sing these nonsense words of wisdom
to that airy attempt at a melody
sometimes we’d talk about the most important things
sometimes those most important things were among us anyway.
Isolated from the extranous,
cut off from seeing with our eyes
A reality emerged in the darkness, a reality for us and between us back then.
But the years rolled in and they pulled us away from that place
and I spent a while trying to go back anyway
I did not realize that this was as pathetic
as Mick Jagger still begging for satisfaction while he is pushing sixty years old.
When I gave up on going back to our tunnel
I spent so long pushing foreward then, and away from it
and it didn’t seem like I got anywhere.
But last night I embraced the wierdness
of what it was I was doing.
I sipped this cup I call Jesus’ blood.
I looked around to the second group I chose as a family
and I thought maybe, just maybe
I heard those soft flute notes again.