Those nights at the Wit’s End, backseat trips,
Black-light dungeons, white rabbit journeys
down strobing holes, shrooms and roaches lit my fire . . .
the doors of perception hazed—not cleansed.
Too close an encounter with a funeral pyre:
drove a beetle, hyperventilated a j,
passed out on two-lane HWY 17.
The Spirit in the sky steered me
to the right. Cushioned by bushes
I stopped unscathed near a swamp,
awoke amid a concerto of Jeremiahs
croaking at black-water edge.
Under the brake pedal a stash hid
from a probing Southern sheriff’s
mirror-sun glassed eyes.
60’s tribute bands play in smokeless! venues.
Silver-crowned women, follicly-challenged men,
some tie-dyed, bandanaed, tattoos faded,
sip Zinfandel, ale, sweet tea, as they
record rockers riding on the storm.
For a few hours, psychedelic memories
took us higher above geriatric mire.
Driving home under moonlight
“Spirit in the Sky” reverberates:
Prepare yourself, you know it’s a must
Gotta have a friend in Jesus,
Where would I be if, left alone in 69,
I passed out, steered into the left lane
as campers, lumber trucks, tractor trailers
blasted toward me?