Being There

I squirted red wine
From a goatskin flask
In a besotted Greek salute to
Bacchus, god of wine and revelry.
But I wasn’t there.

I wore fine linen garments, powder in my hair,
A manly rite of passage
In perverted old Europe
And stepped gracefully to the
Minuet with Lucrezia Borgia.
But I wasn’t there.

I jitterbugged in the Speakeasy
With the Flappers of Chicago,
Kicking high and lovin’ hard
On bathtub gin, free expression
And Marxists philosophy.
But I wasn’t there.

I dug the scene at The Duplex,
Kerouac’s favorite watering hole
With Ginzberg spewing righteous
Beatnik intellect there in
Greenwich Village.
But I wasn’t there.

I draped love beads
Round my neck,
Standing among the faithful
Digging Janis in San Francisco with
Big Brother and the Holding Company.
This time I was there.

And I’ll be there in the flesh,
Decked out in my costume of choice
At the World’s First United Mardi Gras
Celebration in the Mojave Desert,
Puking on Gila Monsters and
Chasing Roadrunners.