A barefoot freak parade meanders

from beachfront to Capitola

where it is perpetually 1970.

Hippie girls, braless under tie-dyed tee shirts,

emerge from psychedelic VW busses,

crowd the boardwalk, ankle bells tinkling,

exuding patchouli.

Reggae music and the smell of dope

permeate every corner.

Blonde surfer boys suck down ganja,

wax their boards, impress tattooed groupies.

I see my past self, a skinny chick

in flip flops, dangling earrings,

ass-length hair, signature tank top.

Former Students for a Democratic Society,

hang with LSD pioneers at the Saturn Café.

We sip chai or herbal tea, a graying

collection of once- radical drop-outs

washed ashore from the turbulent 60’s.

We’ve replaced acid and hash with

Prilosec, Celebrex, Prozac,

don’t share mattresses or tantric sex

with each other’s lovers.

These days, we gather and bitch

like every generation before us,

describe the enlightened utopia

of health, happiness and harmony

we could create and inhabit,

if we weren’t on fixed incomes

and so damned exhausted.