if a makeshift table could talk
Posted: March 22nd, 2011, 7:02 am
candlelight was welcome routine
when the mango sun dipped
into the aquamarine bath
friends talking, laughing, smoking
listening to Byrds singing
about a Tambourine Man
and the possibility
of following him one day
into the jingle jangle morning,
and there were Eagles singing
about standing on a corner
in Winslow, Arizona
and some woman turning around
her flatbed Ford to get a better look,
man, what a gang they were
Witchy Woman, the Desperado
and far too many Tequila Sunrises
to keep track of, and we sang,
sang in unison, sometimes in key
watching every colorful molehill
of dripped wax reveal its own
special story, oh the tales from each
stain from spilled bong-water,
that Hippie Rorschach, the saga
of burning joints and pizza sauce
the nightly christenings, the collaborative
working piece of art that would put
a twinkle in the eye of Jackson Pollack,
hell we didn't need no stinkin' coasters
for bottles of fire brewed Strohs, or cans
of Busch beer we liked to call Blue Runners,
conch shells made decent ashtrays, but
sometimes we couldn't find them
and other times we couldn't see them,
no , nothing could possibly replace
that big old wooden cable reel discarded
by the utility company, it was the hub
of life in our history of communal happiness
when the mango sun dipped
into the aquamarine bath
friends talking, laughing, smoking
listening to Byrds singing
about a Tambourine Man
and the possibility
of following him one day
into the jingle jangle morning,
and there were Eagles singing
about standing on a corner
in Winslow, Arizona
and some woman turning around
her flatbed Ford to get a better look,
man, what a gang they were
Witchy Woman, the Desperado
and far too many Tequila Sunrises
to keep track of, and we sang,
sang in unison, sometimes in key
watching every colorful molehill
of dripped wax reveal its own
special story, oh the tales from each
stain from spilled bong-water,
that Hippie Rorschach, the saga
of burning joints and pizza sauce
the nightly christenings, the collaborative
working piece of art that would put
a twinkle in the eye of Jackson Pollack,
hell we didn't need no stinkin' coasters
for bottles of fire brewed Strohs, or cans
of Busch beer we liked to call Blue Runners,
conch shells made decent ashtrays, but
sometimes we couldn't find them
and other times we couldn't see them,
no , nothing could possibly replace
that big old wooden cable reel discarded
by the utility company, it was the hub
of life in our history of communal happiness