It was a hot fucking day in July.  We were young and gloriously naïve.  The Grateful Dead were set to pack JFK for a jubilant celebration.  Shakedown Street was shaking as all the Deadheads shopped for tie dyed t-shirts and kind grilled cheese sandwiches.  JFK was an old decaying stadium and one could envision gladiators in leather helmets going to battle on the field of honor. 

Decrepit bathrooms

a parking lot full of dreams

liquid joy bestowed

Bruce Hornsby set to open up the show.  He was Jerry’s buddy and some of us knew how good he was.  It meant going in early and enduring the heat.  Harken back to those gladiators.  We can tough it out ourselves.  Lest we knew a final celebration in an antiquated house.  Inspectors were in the stadium day of making a final condemnation of JFK.  An announcement of closure and destruction less than a week away.

Fall apart slowly

not suited for rats or bums

but Deadhead approved

It was a grand time.  Certainly not there best but some interesting songs in the mix.  They should have played “Samson and Deliah”  but I’m guessing they didn’t know themselves.  The inspectors condemned a building but were willing to let 80,000 Deadheads face the danger.  They didn’t realize it during the show but they were going to tear the whole building down. 

So we danced joyous

in the soon to be ruins

blissful unaware

An estimated prophet took a wharf rat to Hell in a bucket and the other one turned on your love light. A little red rooster standing on the moon gave scarlet begonias to a loser.  Not necessarily in that order.  We elevated our consciousness as we sweated away impurities in our hearts.  We filtered out feeling good.  The party continued on to the next stop on the tour.  Soon we would learn the news.

An old piece of shit

we miss her in spite the flaws

some joyous moments

lifted spirits brief moment

not knowing we said goodbye


Published by fuchebuyahoocom

poet, philosopher and comic. Philadelphia born but suburban bred.

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