Turning Times

October 10, 2013 § Leave a comment

head shop

the term
didn’t make a lot of sense
to ten year old boys
with pockets full
of pennies

this was us long
before thumbs
found carburetors on
four foot bongs us
with years to go
before On The Beach
spread vampire blues
as seeds made their
way to the crease

in those days
Times for us
rose as a
black light tabernacle from
a wedge of tall grass and
spindly trees on the
edge of the woods

ignoring admonitions
we would
cut across the field

entering what our
parents dubbed
the lair of the beatnik

it was an unfounded fear for
we cared nothing about
illicit vegetation

our treasure awaited
our return in jars
atop cases securing
pipes and crystals

copper traded for candy rock
licorice a yard long
scrolls of red and yellow dots

beaded curtains clacked
like abacus
as we were rousted from
the poster room

naked African queens lounging
with albino tigers
flame haired warriors
thigh high boots
jeweled swords

the bearded proprietor
practiced a sleepy patience
until customers with real money
came in to
barter for paraphernalia
and talk quadrophonic sound

he would point to the door
and we would file out
into the summer heat with
day-glo sacks of sugar
in our hands
in our heads

(c) 2013 Fred Whitehead


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