"And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,"
Subconscious on Parade 

On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.

Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.

At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.

There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same damn space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.

And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.

On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.


Written for The Black Dog, Theatre Black Dog, and Isadora's, which are all really the same place under time's sneaky aliases.
"hippies and father time.  a mole ente"
Barton D Smock 

he wasn’t overseas to be difficult.
he had pain in his arm, he thought

he could find a snake.  a cut-off toe.

our insides were still inside the time
that we knew him.  his arm it sorta  

came like a slug you might see freed

from a puddle’s hinterland eye.  slow

like that, wrong like that.  like these:  

hippies and father time.  a mole enters
an infected shoulder:  yours.  a mole

has been your heart, and peacefully.

your mother doesn’t know about the mole.
it’s not in the letter.

"    by dissatisfied Hippies with a Tom Robbins book"
Sam Temple 

Born into the Oregon wilderness
      by dissatisfied Hippies with a Tom Robbins book
All I could do was laugh

Always knowing they had no clue
I sat, watching the struggle of day to day life
with a smile

Continuously carrying this feeling
      through injury, job loss, and cancer
a humorous silver lining sparkled with
            subtle irony
      The bright shinning aura of Sam

The comedy of errors in my youth
      was followed by a yawning chasm
in which others misery became fuel for my
            comic fodder

A memory of an Uncle's gravestone
            all the branches of the family tree
drawn together
      its a good feeling to make the ghosts laugh

Now, like an un-caged beast  roaming,
from joke to joke, my mind
has been bent

punchlines birth straight-man set-ups
in a free form extravaganza where
the mundane bring howls from the
      crowd in my head

Sadly, few know the truth...
      few understand the restraint
but most upsetting...only I know
            how funny I really am

"so go on you useless hippies"
Emily N 

Somewhere between
in the middle of really
of San and Francisco
I lost my soul to a vagabond instinct
Saints and relics on the corner of Haight
That’s why the place is holy for tourists
Swing with me
on up Market Street
And we can find Francisco
hanging around the Embarcadero
Some derelict hay-Zeus spouting bygones
between a beard
and a tan line
Some mish-mash of cultural leftovers
tramped out in tie die
and resplendent with the filth
of pigeon shit
and old ash
he has met with God
He has worn the Ash
It is San, a Saint, a sacred place for a reason!
Do you feel the holy ghost
moving through China town
Careful careful
they will shanghai the indulgence out of you
Because that’s what cities do
they consume and eat and take
and will fuck you without thanks
and you will go back for more
because ash and pigeon shit is not enough paint
for your lifetime canvas
you need the piss of some homeless
quote unquote miscreant
and the unused spray can of a
quote unquote hooligan
and the delicate aftershave of some
quote unquote stock market brat
winding his way up the financial district
banging secretaries
because that’s what they all do
when they can’t buy a watch
do you even need a watch
saints need no temporal
mechanization of timekeeping
they have the lords name
and the lords name is forever
so go on you useless hippies
sing your bob Dylan songs until the times have changed
underneath the concrete monolith
of civilization
oh hay-Zeus what have you wrought here
Oh my San Jose San Diego
San Carlos San Clemente
San Rafael y Santa Clara
My San Andreas fault line
Santa Maria San Marino
My Los Gatos
and Angeles, all the Angeles
You will have nothing on my favorite saint of all
And somewhere between San and Francisco
I found a medallion of faith
to hang in the hollow beneath my breasts
open to the breeze flowers in my hair
cheap dye rubbed into my skin
all hail all hail my holy city
All hail san and Francisco all hail all holy all mine

"I felt the eyes of hippies on me"
Monica Abigail 

drugs are quite powerful things.
the second I realized I could smile again,
I knew that my night was going to be great.
my lover found me,
though his mind was somewhere else,
as was mine.
I kept smoking the world's longest cigarette
then conquered the world
with my naked body
doing things it wasn't familiar with.
I couldn't stop thinking,
thinking and listening,
as my body kept moving.
he put up a struggle,
just for sexy's sake,
and I used my newly found smile
for a devilish grin.
words rolled out of my mouth
before they came to my brain.
once I was finished with being in control,
I decided to put on the slinkiest dress I could find
just to explore tent city with Judge Fannin.
I felt the eyes of hippies on me
but I wasn't afraid of them,
I greeted the eyes with a smile and a wave
then went about my business.
two ladies were bathing each other
so I couldn't resist a hello.
despite my bare feet on gravel,
I couldn't feel a thing but my new self-confidence
and the tug on my dress
from a lonely lover.
he spun me around,
dancing in the middle of every one
and I knew he loved me.
we sat by the fire,
said our goodbyes to friends and
headed back to our tent.
"Brad was right!"
schizophrenic men were running around
but you couldn't pay them too much attention
or else you may be dragged in.
we ran back to the tent,
laid there hand in hand
while expressing our deep love for each other.
I closed my eyes and saw crazy images
so I smiled at my tripping brain.
I listened to the bluegrass music,
trying to dance without too much movement.
the lover beside me
was too spun out to stay awake
even though I tried my hardest
to keep him up.
we woke up exactly how we fell asleep:
in love
and half naked.

"The hippies around me were examining me,"
Monica Abigail 

Bug eyes and new breasts
seem to get you pretty far
at a music festival.
Women were dancing with fire
and the music was my soundtrack.
I stepped on a tent stake
despite being told to watch out
but lucky for me,
I didn't feel it until the next day.
I knew my feet would hate me.
The hippies around me were examining me,
or at least it felt like it,
and I was on top of the world.
Everything was perfect:
I was witty,
on top of my game.
I felt beautiful
and every time I closed my eyes,
I saw beautiful,
incredible things.
I fell in love all over again
with the snoring beast.
The grass was dancing to bluegrass
and in my hand
was the hand of a mumbling lover
that managed to keep my heart racing.

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