The sixties were good to him . . . in his mind, he’s still there.
Grizzled and bearded, weary and wise, stoic and stoned,
he plays too much foos ball and drinks too much beer,
and still wears a bandanna around his long stringy hair.
He’s a man with a mission, but forgot what it was,
wasted and wistful, a sweet generous guy,
he shares his home, his big screen t.v., and booze,
the friendly neighborhood hound in a chemical buzz.
Vietnam has a lot to do with how he is today;
nightmares still get him, so he sits up late a lot;
three kids, one made special – the genetics of agent orange;
he doesn’t see much of them, thinks it’s better that way.
A patriot who paid with his mind and his drive,
one divorce behind him, he still can’t relate.
He’s full of good intentions, promises, and dreams;
he tries, but can’t focus; he’s just glad to be alive.
He drives real fast, but talks real slow,
stopping and thinking, plodding and plowing
through allegory, memories, metaphors, and mayhem
in a mind more in sync with a time thirty years ago.
He’s a Woodstock kind of guy in a Hip Hop kind of world,
a genuine hippie still wearing his first bell bottoms
and using his old bong . . . a man still growing and rolling his own.
A rebel without a cause, still tie-dyed and politically pure.
A man in blue delivering the mail and his philosophy
to anyone who will take an hour, share a beer, and listen
to a mind filled with facts, fantasy, fluff, and wonder.
Intelligence evident, but like a hare in a snare, it is caught
between the past and the present, what was and what is.
He’s casual and cool, and sometimes confused —
he’s laid back and loaded, funny and fun,
whistling and wandering out to the garden to take a whiz.
To those lucky women who know, he is good in the sack,
sensual and sonorous, tactile and tender, a touch gentle
and thorough, knowing and sure, tongue and fingers
map new territory and make up for what his penis may lack.
He’s a good reliable lover, philosopher, and friend,
the neighborhood weirdo, harmless and warm,
a little bit matted and mystic, holistic and reeling,
maybe dented and dated, but a guru on the mend . . .
just loping through, in his blue postal uniform.
— Elaine Pedersen ©