f the seventies.
Or so it was rumoured.
What's next in the social roller derby?
Cutbacks, retrenchments, accountability.
Even uglier, this new argot of the eighties.

WHAT COLOUR IS LOVE?

Sixties idols were built to last.
A 70's idol is shoddy and throwaway by comparison.
Whatever became of Carnaby Street or bell bottoms?
The mentality is alive and well (another dreadful anachronism) in
smart up-town boutiques.
The proprietors, though, don't sell little bells to freaks anymore.
Luxurious Persian rugs, instead, are all the vogue.
And bail money for vendors hawking copies of Guerrilla on the
streets of Toronto or Black Panther leaflets in US cities isn't
needed anymore.
Who was Bobby Seale? Who remembers?

The first generation in history, a new consciousness...
Remember the Greening of America?
Escape From Freedom?
The futuristic think tankers?
consciousness III?
Bombers turning into butterflies?
Today's B-52's are punk rockers.

I like my memories, retreat-like, hazy in myopic seclusion.
I suspect social historians for the pleasant dribble they write about
the age.
The age, like it spanned a thousand years, opened new epochs.
More like Adolf's remark about his millennial Reich.
Some doubt the authenticity of the Holocaust. I doubt the sixties.
It, too, lasted what seemed twelve years.

CHAIN LETTER

I'm sitting in a "sixties bar." No put-on.
All around old Rolling Stones music is playing.
I can tell it's a sixties bar by the spiffy waiter recycling sheets for
tablecloths. The sixties was "into," environment.
It's the eighties now as Heineken was unobtainable in 1969.
Someone reminds me in order to run a tab a credit card is needed.
This seems logical but very out of sorts with the people power
complex I'm nurturing.
Even the jokes above the bar are old hat.
This confirms with certainty that Madcaps is Nostalgia.
It's too built up for Sha-Na-Na, fintails or Nancy Sinatra's,
These Boots Are Made For Walking.
In my sensible decade that tune is considered sadistic. Obviously,
the effect is too sophisticated to imagine I'm even a temporary
time traveller. Still, poetry is a communicable disease
invented in the 1920's by a snooty degenerate named Pound.

I bide my time. It's an oasis for waiting. Old time experiences seem
strangely current in this campy pub.
Occasionally, someone in a zoot suit comes