Un-Grateful

I feel I must confess,
Blasphemous though it may be,
(Especially in Northern California),
But it's hopeless,
I tried.

Really.

I'm convinced that I am,
In truth,
Too sun-drenched,
Too dehydrated and desert blown,
Too desiccated to be Dead-icated.

Just not enough mellow in this fellow.

Maybe I was infected at birth,
Imbued with the callow pop dust of SoCal,
The sugary sprinkles of glittering lights,
And palm trees.

Too many peaceful easy feelings,
Not enough fog,
Or bluegrass,
Or acid,
Or revolution.

Too much Topanga Canyon,
Not enough Haight-Ashbury.

The Grateful Dead are lost on me.

Give me bouquets of begonias,
And magnolias,
Let me make ripples in still waters,
These things make sense.
Trouble ahead and behind,
I understand.
I see the allure,
But the secret in the music,
I don't hear it,
Not like Jerry's Kids did.

And do.

The Dead,
Indeed,
Keep on truckin'.
They will get by,
But alas,

I do not have a tie-dyed soul.

6-4-19