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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=431925" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In 1969</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some called it the Summer of Love, & although the clustered,<br>Motionless leaves that overhung the streets looked the same<br>As ever, the same as they did every summer, in 1967,<br>Anybody with three dollars could have a vision.<br>And who wouldn’t want to know what it felt like to be<br>A cedar waxwing landing with a flutter of gray wings<br>In a spruce tree, & then disappearing into it,<br>For only three dollars? And now I know; its flight is ecstasy.<br>No matter how I look at it, I also now know that<br>The short life of a cedar waxwing is more pure pleasure<br>Than anyone alive can still be sane, & bear.<br>And remember, a cedar waxwing doesn’t mean a thing,<br>Qua cedar or qua waxwing, nor could it have earned<br>That kind of pleasure by working to become a better<br>Cedar waxwing. They’re all the same.<br>Show me a bad cedar waxwing, for example, & I mean<br>A really morally corrupted cedar waxwing, & you’ll commend<br>The cage they have reserved for you, resembling heaven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some people spent their lives then, having visions.<br>But in my case, the morning after I dropped mescaline<br>I had to spray Johnson grass in a vineyard of Thompson Seedless<br>My father owned—& so, still feeling the holiness of all things<br>Living, holding the spray gun in one hand & driving with the other,<br>The tractor pulling the spray rig & its sputtering motor—<br>Row after row, I sprayed each weed I found<br>That looked enough like Johnson grass, a thing alive that’s good<br>For nothing at all, with a mixture of malathion & diesel fuel,<br>And said to each tall weed, as I coated it with a lethal mist,<br>Dominus vobiscum, &, sometimes, mea culpa, until<br>It seemed boring to apologize to weeds, & insincere as well.<br>For in a day or so, no more than that, the weeds would turn<br>Disgusting hues of yellowish orange & wither away. I still felt<br>The bird’s flight in my body when I thought about it, the wing ache,<br>Lifting heaven, locating itself somewhere just above my slumped<br>Shoulders, & part of me taking wind. I’d feel it at odd moments<br>After that on those long days I spent shoveling vines, driving trucks<br>And tractors, helping swamp fruit out of one orchard<br>Or another, but as the summer went on, I felt it less and less.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As the summer went on, some were drafted, some enlisted<br>In a generation that would not stop falling, a generation<br>Of leaves sticking to body bags, & when they turned them<br>Over, they floated back to us on television, even then,<br>In the Summer of Love, in 1967,<br>When riot police waited beyond the doors of perception,<br>And the best thing one could do was get arrested.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Larry+Levis">Larry Levis</a><div class=q>
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Motionless leaves that overhung the streets looked the same
As ever, the same as they did every summer, in 1967,
Anybody with three dollars could have a vision.
And who wouldn’t want t..."></div>
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