Being There

I squirted red wine
From a goatskin flask
In a besotted Greek salute to
Bacchus, god of wine and revelry.
    But I wasn’t there.

I wore fine linen garments, powder in my hair,
A manly rite of passage
In perverted old Europe
And stepped gracefully to the
Minuet with Lucrezia Borgia.
    But I wasn’t there.

I jitterbugged in the Speakeasy
With the Flappers of Chicago,
Kicking high and lovin’ hard
On bathtub gin, free expression
And Marxists philosophy.
    But I wasn’t there.

I dug the scene at The Duplex,
Kerouac’s favorite watering hole
With Ginzberg spewing righteous
Beatnik intellect in
Greenwich Village.
    But I wasn’t there.

I draped love beads
Round my neck,
Standing among the faithful
Digging Janis in San Francisco with
Big Brother and the Holding Company.
    But I wasn’t there.

    I’ll be there in the flesh,
Decked out in my costume of choice
At the World’s First United Mardi Gras
Celebration in the Mojave Desert,
Puking on Gila Monsters and
Chasing Roadrunners.