HIPPIE PUNKS
The boys met on the bus back in ’76 and have rolled together since.
Kids in the cold, they honed their gold, warming their hands by a Hawaiian guitar; one by one, they watched all the trucks leave, teaching desire.
Then came Body in the Garden; Lazarene resurrection men, playing bomb sites, holes in the wall, reducing to rubble all old ways.
Running the roads and rivers of the north to wide renown and deep acclaim, in time they came down from the hills; Alexanders, riding foreign trails of dust and gold.
To Europe and street-sleepers, blackmail, coercion and whores; decadent poets, addiction and the stink of sewers; hitching into dissipation, grinding to a halt. Just deserts.
Keep on trucking boys. The New World awaits.
Grand tours seeking glib fortunes in the bright south, horse-trading empires of dust; Neapolitan women, diseases of the mind, divorce. Out of the aeons, eternity stumbled.
Light dimmed and all was hangovers and grey skies; loss, gravel roads and the weight of towers.
Reunited, they look beneath the light to pick up the roots and ravel, and with the fresh winds of liberation come The Idling Engines; quietly singing, far over fields on fire.
Canticles to the holy trinity; Bukowski, Kerouac and Hem. Waits is an altar boy and all-old temples of Ceres shake.
Hozomeen, Hozomeen, Hozomeen sing the women, swaying to the river; humming as they comb their hair in old newness of the morning after.
Out of the flatlands they came to stir the free grass; to grow from the soil a monument to all beginnings and all ends – The Mother Legends.
Motherfucking legends in their own lifetime, the mother of all legends, the alphas and omegas of all exceptional things; all iconic places, and all times enshrined in history. Outsized.
It is their beginning and their end. They came from outside. The universe said yes.
