1976

Farrah-Fawcett-on-skates

 

Something about 1976,

The air smelled like thick,

Beach scented and Coppertoned,

Girls running crazy,

Hookah sunsets,

Everything seemed slightly,

Stoned,

 

Steamy summers in Santa Cruz,

Hot winds flashing through my mind,

Youth running wild,

With nothing to lose,

Those were the days,

Where there was nothing so evil,

To choose,

 

I remember the hitchhikers,

In long skirts and bikini tops,

The scratching sounds of skater wheels,

On the hot battered pavement,

Of the Boardwalk,

Volleyball nets and the ocean breeze,

And when the sun went down,

Smells of seafood,

Restaurants,

 

Bell-bottomed guitarists,

Wooden beads and breasts,

Radio always blazing,

Some of the worst,

And some of the best,

Of that era,

 

When Elvis would leave us,

And Jesus would save us,

From ourselves,

And maybe even,

From the conservative, conformist hell,

That we were always trying to avoid,

 

The void,

Since 1976,

Muscle cars and gasoline,

Scents I’ll never forget,

Like VW vans and whiffs of,

Patchouli oil and sweat,

Surfer boys on their bikes,

Armed with board,

And bleached blonde charm,

Houseboats and Birkenstocks,

Sexy disco,

Psychedelic rock,

 

Nothing was as hot,

As Farrah,

And Foxy,

And Spock,

Three was Company,

And Brady was a Bunch,

And everyone had a hunch,

That war was bad,

And that it was not the end then,

And we know,

Now it’s still,

Not.

 

Nineteen Seventy Six.

That was the fix,

I needed tonight.

Goodnight.

 

~ Copyright 2012 Dilara Esengil, All Right Reserved

(Image not property of the Author)

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