1967

I wrote this poem today listening to a 1967 playlist. (Beverly Hill Hotel Photo by David Alexander*.)

This playlist is very
much like coming home
for the first time
waits for no one turn turn turn
map after endless
fucking map—
bitch map, bastard
son—deliberate
as fuck, never even heard
of the goddam G-spot
or Ventura Highway
sunshine on my shoulders—jet
planes leaving high above us
every second clouds
from both sides now closing in
California wet dream—and
the sky is no longer grey
but tinsel color and you
beat-off—on a dark desert
highway—rain on 1965
glass one wiperblade and a
prayer fucking exit to Todos Santos
hard as woodstock for
your sister’s golden hair—
daughter of the devil
himself an angel in white—
tied up in a hotel basement
(such a lovely face)
such a lovely place
ready a room for the
grateful dead and
Casey Jones—don’t be a prick
I bought that cocaine
and a ticket
to an aeroplane—
one foot stuck in 1967 like a
wasted fuck wilted
flowers in her sunset
hair—these things
I forgot to do for you—
and I had a lover once—
his long middle finger
teasing Joplin to come
out today and
put the rain away
and that music starts
to play—and oh
What’s that you say?
Mrs Robinson?
Jesus loves you more
than you could know…
whoa
whoa
whoa

(C)2021 by Sanguine Woods

*https://www.loudersound.com/features/the-story-behind-the-eagles-hotel-california-album-artwork-interview

Until the day I die…

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When someone asks you Do you have any heros? And you are about to say No. Because you don’t. You never have. And you’ve never gone deep on that point. But the truth is you haven’t been an easy person to understand, by your own self, let alone by others. You think no one could know your crazy heart, not because it’s complicated, just the opposite, in fact. A little anachronistic for sure. You don’t want anyone in that space. A hero? Maybe some runner ups. Faces of free spirits float in and out of your mind. People who would know why you can’t just belong to someone, something….when you belong to everything else. It would have to be someone you would like to meet, sync with, save from being gone too soon…someone you would be proud being and being with. Then it hits you. And you’d never even thought of it before that moment.

Gypsy steal my heart.

Sing my soul, hippie queen.

Lose the shoes; live your blues.

Flower Power.

And why not, Mama?

Why not. ♡

“…and I’ll be yours, until the rivers all run dry. Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme. In other words…”

—Image: “Mama” Cass Elliott, ca. 1960s