Does the color green signify hope,

or does it bring to mind heaps of dope—

the acrid smell of which vents out of 

every drain and ditch on my street? The

unsightly weed, prickly when it dries,

once sniffed makes me hear the high. Charlie

Brice, that is I, stoned by contact when

I pass by. Oh those college days of herb 

and daze, lost but happy in the blaze 

when, brain-dimmed I mistook the word dayglow 

for dago and wondered what hippies had 

against Italians. Strobes and patchouli 

oil cause such misapprehensions. Think 

of Zappa’s imitation of a 

Roman drunkard chanting Oh no! Oh no!

on Suzy Cream cheese, or Dylan’s pleas

that he couldn’t find his knees. He spied

a hole where his stomach disappeared. 

No wonder he was afeared! The cracked

shell of reason paved Bob’s streets with gold. 

Those dollar signs made him bold, gave him 

lots of bread, let him boogie with Frank though 

Frank was dead. Barley Chise, they called me 

in grade school, good Catholic boys, but not

so nice. They will, of course, pay for their 

meanness in the afterlife. Their pest-

iferous pizzles will fall off, turned to

ash in the fires of strife—or not.  

Socrates said, Ἕν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα,”*

but I say, watch it, boys, those flames are

gonna eat ya. You used too much ganja,

fell off a cliff while toking a spliff,

now look around, see where it got ya.