Tremont Street, Boston. about 1843. Philip Harry, American (born in England), 1843–1860. 34.92 x 40.96 cm (13 3/4 x 16 1/8 in.) Oil on panel. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
English: Race Point Lighthouse, Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA, 1876
Provincetown, Cape Cod, Massachusetts, USA (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
GIST: 1982-1983
He was a mistake, outside to in. Prematurely pushed into streets, he found sordid company. Dropped acid under a neon-sway sign on Tremont Street, that read “Drugs.”
Friendly ghosts seen on Colonial streets, down Boylston and Massachusetts Ave, in the day.
Extreme, pulsing jazz rhythms ride and flow from the Berklee Performance Center through out the Back Bay and beyond.
1983-Moved to Roxbury, MA, before gentrification, with sordid fellows,.
14 June, 1983- The partiers threw kan, from The Book of Changes, for direction:
“Crossing The River.”
15 June, 1983- CAPE COD, MASSACHUSETTS
9:00 pm-ish. Two arrived at the Cape, by the Charity of the Road. Without compass, intending Provincetown, but lost on Portsmouth On The Bay.
Sandy eyed, blurred, directed by Gods’ breath-winds, coming off acid. Thrown kan as blind faith. To the wind as they will go.
Welcomed only betwixt sea salt air, mournful cawing, and stinging sands.
Wounded veterans, trudging eons. Stars became altered and displaced.
Curses at birth reverberated in his Virgo soul.
His mothers’ intentional wounding. She had wanted a girl.
Multigenerational poison pulsed in his unwilling helpless, captive veins.
Cut, hung in airless altitudes, without compassion or mercy.
He dropped tears of despair on obsidian sidewalks, in midnight rain.
His absurdly optimistic friend puffed verdurous Rastafarian green, as
they ascended:
Pulled anaranjado sun from the bottom of prehensile ocean.
Surreal Native Americans spirits, in furtive bliss, danced ferociously, in future passed in gray mist, clouds. Tom toms, mesmerized , war whoops, fury. Love, encapsulated in timeless sapient winds, sang hope.
But their bellies grumbled amid bliss. Food not easily procured, but clams on the beach, for free. Free ice water at Ye Olde Oysterhouse, where colonial soldiers had sat “in the 1770’s,” while local bluebloods cast disdaining glances and lifted gold-frothed draughts of beer, in 1983.
On sides of the weather-beaten road, Revolutionary tombstones jutted in spurts. Some stones pushed up uneasily in crooked curious mounds of earth, in uneven grass. The stones mutely weathered in calligraphy from old Hollywood ghost tales, bending clock time to antiquity. Some stones dated before the act of the Revolution ever became forged.
Their brimming imaginations now burst with creative fire. They were having fun. Fate thrown to the Gods, foolish youth play.
Natives, Redcoats, Minutemen collected under soles of their tender feet. Here lay New England‘s collective elders, hallowed, dissentient tectonic dust, they knew, in silence, awe.
They sat in a circle of stones from an ancient fire, or just from campers, but it was more fun this way. Breathed in bliss and thick Rasta smoke.
Barely audible purple, misty waves surrounded their heart chakras. Lingering tales extolled by globe-bells deep in tombs laying on oceans floor. Lives opened from canoes, slave ships, war ships, boatloads of immigrants, that architected ever wider to more boisterous vibrations. Becoming the pounding urban sprawl of the American city of Boston, Massachusetts, USA.
On its safety valve of the Cape, prisms on sand shaped into mini geometrical architecture. Imperfect angles made by God, linear measurement being only in man, as God. Man with life breathed into them, created.
Sculptured into generations of minds, as the two lost, bedraggled seekers were being viewed through hand-blown Colonial glass panes. With Puritan disdain from the blueblood locals.
Tides orchestrated by the smiling moon goddess. Waves in the azure ocean pulled sweet songs of Solomon, into the pairs’ opened consciousness, looking for universal directions.
In a moment whispered quiet to them, direction home,…
as a simultaneous, benevolent driver of a gold chariot red Ferrari pulled over and beckoned them to come in. The driver, with a silver spoon around his neck, was coincidentally looking for weed. And in true Rasta spirit, delivered them to their doorstep, back in Boston, free of charge.
jakelonewolf 