Flashbacks

 Zeplin shakes the foundation of our party house. Clouds of pot and hash fill our noses with the sweetness of the gods. Small groups sit in the corner, watching every movement around them in spooky silence. Trails entwine fingers as the colors roll past. Someone puts the needle down too hard on the record, and someone yells to take it to fuck easy with the vinyl. Jethro Tull, black sabbath, and cream surround us as the giant speakers blast out the best of the best rock. A young girl braids the hair of a newfound friend, and the smell coming from the kitchen means the munchies are taking over for a while anyway. Boons farm wine, goofy grape, strawberry hill, and cheap beer littered on every table dead soldier who didn't stand a chance. The bedrooms are filled with shared sex and sleep and rinse and repeat. Night falls, and the black lights come alive, making faces all teeth and who knows what glowing on the floors. Time to drop some purple haze or brown barrel, maybe some masculine, depending on what the dealer had on him. Some of us went outside to trip on everything we saw, weaving our way to the park where others gathered to hear the music of local talent and others who made a name for themselves among us. The soft grass made for a blanket, looking up at the stars and hoping for a shooter. Was all this killing your brain cells, or was it enlightenment into another space in time only known to those of us who let it matter then and now? Regrets, no way. Id be leery of a repeat at my age although I can picture a hit of mescaline and a bottle of Goofy grape while a young girl braded my gray hair.

Mike 2024