A Fall from Grace
Jeff Weddle
There was a world of vast energetic fields
of art and music, dance, free thought,
girls and boys and liquor, weed, LSD,
poetry poetry poetry.
Scruffy youngsters passing out mimeographed assaults
on the walls of the box that suffocated them,
maybe collecting enough change
for a bottle of wine, or maybe meeting a soul
as lost as their own, now found
in the chaotic circus
of the dream.
The streets were filled with sunlight
and moonlight and starlight and inner light.
Coffee and cigarettes.
How did we get there and why did we leave?
The universe wanted one thing
and the universities and the politicians
and the preachers wanted another,
as the people tried to find their way.
Some worshiped sex and called it life.
Some worshiped police officers
and the flag, movie stars, Tupperware,
and of course money,
and something they called God.
Some wanted flowers at midnight.
Was it all too much?
Something finally snatched it away.
Oh, angels. Oh, family.
What became of heaven?
