2017 03 09
When I meet people and tell them my name,
and tale of my wanderings across the land,
born in misty Oregon, raised in Texas,
attended high school and college near Seattle,
hitchhiked far east to Denver and Miami,
designed websites and attended grad school
in frozen Michigan, lived on the coast
in North Carolina, then wrote my epic
in the sultry hills of southwestern Georgia,
I like to say I am a Beatles Baby.
Though my mother listened to Elvis Presley,
and my father sang in a Christian choir,
I was a fetus when the Beatles toured
across America sea to singing sea,
appearing from the sky of roiling storm
like four angels bringing harmonious light.
After Kennedy was shot in November
while riding in a limousine in Dallas,
my young parents were married in December
in a small red-brick church by the green sea,
then my soul was conceived in January
just as the Beatles arrived in America.
The Beatles sang on Ed Sullivan Show
in February when I was still a embryo,
then girls screamed in ecstatic joy of lust
as the Fab Four toured across this great land,
while I floated in the warm sea of eyes,
dreaming the evolution of mankind.
Right after the Beatles sang their last concert
on a sultry soul-surging night in August
in a giant stadium in San Francisco
I was born in the misty town of Portland
on a gloomy fall midnight in September
in the shadow of huge sleeping volcano
in ancient pine forests of Oregon,
proclaimed as the Fool in his Nowhere Land.
I wonder if this explains the intense urge
that electrifies my mind with desire
to stand on the mountain in lightning rain
and chant long vision of evolving Earth
that spirals through the vast galactic web
of my brain cells sparkling with howling souls
who soar on eagle wings around the world
then transform into singing apple trees.
We silly humans with brains full of dreams
are always inventing myths of ourselves.