Gracie Slick At 23 And Me On LSD
It was enough to see her face
burnt red like the red
sand of Tucson; fluorescent to
the extreme. Her eyes and manner
of movement across the plateau,
as morning sun burst forth like
a birth of primal ooze
of reds, grays and blues.
This beautiful child-woman with
high tone blacklite gymnastics,
pushing the point to a
stagnating purple, all ablaze
all ablaze! She spoke through
colors splashing day-glo paint
on me and several others,
the sound of her voice multi-layered
Her words weave, winding
binding, nailing down
no directly dialectical explanation
of her continual blinding sensual,
psychedelic state, and the words were flying,
they were in the air bounding in twirling,
swinging waves of acrylic and oil base
paint, with a water color glow.
Drawing no response from my ongoing
questioning; though she did, standing
firmly placed in one precise, if not
general area of the wobbling
space we shared, she did for half or third of a
second, smile. Her smile was like
an amphitheater full of strobe lights
all on steady fiercely quick blinks. When
the music stopped, it was at this point
I realized the point was null, whatever the point was
to begin with, and as she passed close
to me, I offered her some suntan lotion,
10 thousand milligrams of vitamin C,
my ultra thriving libido and every
fucking drop of blood in my body.