Kenneth has a taste for abstract/prose poetry as well as the comical side of life. 23-years of writing for a newspaper has served him well.
Personal Thinking is
. . . before you read this piece, you might have tasted Fear as you've never felt it before--when I started this work on March 2, late at night, snuggling with my many, many cups of black coffee. If I knew the highly-touted brand name on my container of coffee would pay me $12,000.00, I would plug that brand until it made you sick.
. . . the overwhelming reason that Fear and I glared at each other was simple. I had a blank place with no real thoughts to put on it. You really can't get anymore terrified than I was.
The Perfect Picture of Panic Attacks . . .
"Hey! I'm right here! In the middle! Please get me outtta here!"
Woodstock was . . .
Too many lights; Too many seams between dark and light; Mistrusted minds on paranoid "downers" crying for someone to sleep; The Sand Man trapsing the hillside; Max Yasgur had not smiled this much since he showed a profit; Vinyl, sweet vinlyl, maybe the three-LP gig will work; Look at the pretty girl wearing a quilt; Don't take drugs, they might take you; Wavy again--poor soul. No home to live in; Arlo's drunk again!; Sopping dirt-ridden socks worn by an exhausted man who remains nameless; Let's move to Bethel, just as far in as the city limits will go; Stop that chanting!; What in the name of creation are those nine guys with video cameras; Lighting is striking, Bill; Get back!; What? The Beatles can't come?; More food! More food!; And the little children singing songs from their heart; Joni, what have you done?; CSN&Y, sounds more like a defuct railroad; Drums are wet! Someone get me the doctor; Get the Heat back on!; Night came early; Cutting yourself with pinecones; Is Willy going to give us the burgers; Get Richie back if he's still here; Arlo's drunk again; The crowd is dwindling, spindling, and finally dragging their tales back home. And so it was, 750,000 + people, met in the pastureland of Max "I'm a farmer" Yasgur and doggone it! He was among the honest stiffs.
Woodstock is . . .
a rut or two made by V-8 engines; a few curse words yelled to an ear of some soul who drifted off asleep--drugs, you know; a gap in Time, rather a small, but deliberate hole that high-flying and thinking men tried to fill that historical tear in the tired fabric of Illusion so truth could stand; the songs sang by soon-to-be starving-seekers of some New Way that only fell short; Loud voices day and night giving the latest things being said in the woods; Birds, deer, and some helicopters made the day bearable when the drug-dazed thousands melted into their own sky; Stars from a time ago singing notes from forgotten sheet music kept safe by Electro-Magnetic Recording Tape; Steel, sweat, and silly notions from the Loners who flew away too quickly and some said they died; Survival of the foods; A masquerading of rigid names known one sunrise, and forgotten the next; The Common Law: Everyone's biggest joke; What arts? What crafts?: Nails, hammers, and lumber promised someone to pay for it; The National Guard, bless their heart--quickly volunteering to "guard" a lonesome crowd of multi-colored souls; Several flags flying with not one reason for the breeze; Where did Richie Havens go?
© 2018 Kenneth Avery