–
by Gerard Sarnat
–
Horror show at the time
but small and perfect
in fragile retrospect
the closest I ever got to
pseudo-Dylanesque
was summer of ’68
break from Stanford med
living with high school
freaks who scored
1600 on their SATs
plus tabs of LSD
that they shared.
I paid a month’s rent
so we could crash
in East Oakland
just off the 880 freeway
which poisoned poor
babies with car lead
near Montgomery Ward’s
where I bought a set of
weights guys pumped
when not busy lifting from
7-Eleven, doing odd
jobs, acid, fucking.
Came back early one morning
to find iron etc on 23rd St.
landlord had tossed.
Thusly ended first stop
but underage GF & I
hitchhiked north
to her parent’s poultry
farm in Sonoma to
gather literal egg
money before then heading
to Vancouver so this head
could stay ahead of
my LA draft board plus
outa Nam. Chick’s
dad and mommy
supposedly away on vaca
arrived July 4 while we
occupied their bed—
so as to avoid papa’s shotgun
this boy got in shoes/ pants
onto the road pronto.
Surviving on Ding Dongs,
babe and I made it into
Canada ’til she left me
in the dust for better prospects.
Single life there didn’t pan
out like imagined
so when really nice strangers
offered a ride back down to
San Francisco I jumped in.
Past the border after I fell
asleep, she gently slipped
off blue backpack, jacket
holding my wallet as he
opened the door, rolled
me onto the pavement.
Colder than a witch’s teat,
I got lucky picked up by
a rainbow hippy bus
took us to their Mount Shasta
commune, feast night of
drugs, love culminated
in Jamaica knit hats being passed
for cash collected to get moi
south to the Republic of
Berkeley, the place one of you
maybe reading this provided
comfort and some money.