“Nights in White Satan” played on your phonograph
we moved to the rhythms of Moog synthesizers,
Moody lyrics, and social revolution, touching
each other’s minds with words of our own: promises,
confessions, lipped gestures and second chances.
Our red lava lamps morphed into shapes and designs
befitting imaginations bent on progression, certain
that lasting renewal would emerge from sweat
and blood absorbed by wooden stakes or ropes on placards’
and banners that had succumbed to the elements or police.
Yet from trashcans to alleyways littered with dixie dumpsters
we fix our eyes on rubble, allow our hearts to palpitate on high,
exchange knowing smiles, and expect a phoenix to emerge—
or perhaps its Persian cousin, Simurgh—suspending judgment,
blessing friends and adversaries alike with feathers and fire.
