Have you read the note?
It speaks of the doom of the liquid element.
An inclement weather, grey, and with the fuss of a bleached lightning,
Besieges the tick of the clock.
Must have been a bland Sunday, which retreated
From the temerity of old wine,
Haunted by the lonesome refrains of exhausted hymns.
The belfry yawned loosely....
But quiet crept in like leprosy,
Hanging loops on loam-matted hair, black and fringy,
And nursing frets we held
When the wetted guitar strings would not strum....
Have you read her note?
Not the one of Mrs. Dalloway
Nor the one of Between the Acts,
But the one she cringed for —
That banal, invidious act, non-virginal,
Which haunts the church to this day.
She has such a girlie truck, she must be quite a woman.
How do you know it’s a woman’s truck?
Look at the color. It is Fuchsia.
So Fuchsia has to be a woman’s color?
Um, yah!
He is such a redneck.
I say, “watch and learn.”
My pal Spencer comes tearing out of the house.
He is wearing a tank top and cut offs that are way too high.
His pockets are hanging out of the fringy slits!
There is an orange lei around his neck.
He gives me a little dance step and a twirl.
“What was that?” the redneck asked.
That was my friend, Spencer. I say.
“Is Spencer a girl’s name?” He asks me.
I walk away.
In the 60's, dungarees
(Not jeans, if you recall)
Were worn with big wide flaring bells
And floor-length they would fall.
My favorite pair were cut real low,
Hip-hugging and skin-tight.
A fringy belt of suede made sure
My clothes looked out-of-sight.
The bottoms grazed the ground and thus
Would rip and slightly shred.
I added some embroidery;
You'd notice that instead.
Today my jeans are from the Gap
And though they're kinda flared,
They're nothing like the ones I wore
When hippie fashions fared.
But I'm no longer who I was
Back then, so young and free,
When my embroidered bells announced
The me I hoped to be.