Seventies Child
I’m a child of the seventies.
I want to ride storms,
feel their cyclonic embrace,
let them sweep me up,
fling me down
upon endless roads leading nowhere. Am I alive
or dead? The question is moot,
for I am, and have always been, both.
I’m a child of the seventies.
I was born to be wild, and to run. I depend upon this psychedelically delicate earth
to light my fire;
try my best to learn from fools and sages,
while I unlearn the lock of intellectual logic.
I want to spray stars in my hair,
dream floral maxi-dress dreams,
dance endlessly in the promised gold of September.
I’ll always be a child of the seventies.
I want to live off the wall, and never stop loving
this madcap, ludicrously beautiful wonder of a world
and all its crazily short-sighted bored-to-tears befuddled inhabitants.
I want to stay vibrantly alive,
a true nature’s child every moment of my life, never stopping till I get enough—
until the dream I keep dreaming on comes true.
