The Year of A Thousand Sundays

Nineteen was a year bathed in light.

Vision was rolled and tossed and set afire,

Expressing more than it ever saw.

To question the willingness

Of that thrusting and dancing opponent named Life

Seemed foolish,

Though his whims were the tide of a sea or the explosion of skies.

More of me could always be given

And was always given.

The giving kept me alive.

Trying to twist time through the avenues of my world,

I rinsed my dreams in the rowdy religion of psychedelia.

Sparks started days like fires,

Large and crackling.

Of all the days I danced with,

Of all the hidden gods I conquered,

Of all the heavens and hells I tumbled through,

This day, this year,

I never forgot.

Nineteen was a year that roared and rumbled,

And it reigned,

As the Year of A Thousand Sundays.