Don’t tell me of hippie
lies with minds in
hands and brains in heads,
feet rough from treading lightly
in sandals that wrap around feet—
like life’s drugs wrap around understanding.

Don’t tell me of a hippie’s dance that never ends,
where rhythm catches the winds encounters and
where melody is in a river’s water,
crashing into down strokes of
strong beats.

Don’t tell me of a body pure,
where sober minds lean on the soil’s foundations
with bodies striped of ill intentions, as though they can
control them.

Give her cancer, hippie,
with colors to make
it covered with happiness and dye to make
what is not really—
with minds in hands
Contort your present pictures into veils.

*nothing against hippies!

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