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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Biographical · #2272810
The things we did...


The river danced over rocks and ridges--
shallow with sunlight reflecting off the tumbled stones
that always made walking in it a challenge.
But we did anyway, collecting my favorite
smooth, round ones. I used to line my window sills
with parades of whitened rocks. Always
knew exactly which came from where.

Up on the mountain, we'd skip stones
disrupting our lake's glassy, cloud-mirroring surface.
The ducks would skitter
and the geese would complain,
but we did it anyway. He'd skip
those stones dozens of times; mine
splashed and sank.

Older now, he'd be on the road
lighting the stages for Geils or Jett.
I'd sit, out of the way, up on the
lighting platform, watching as he'd
make blues and magentas dance while
the sound and lighting crew passed
joints from one to another.

I got stoned the first time at a J. Geils concert;
he and I blatantly ignored the other
as the joints danced hand to hand.
I remember the lights blurring, the crowd
swaying to the music far below me
and knowing our folks would kill me
if they knew. I did it anyway.

There was an article in Rolling Stone
about my brother in the mid-seventies.
They talked of his being stoned
more often than not, one just was,
I suppose. Mom didn't know what
being stoned meant. I knew I shouldn't lie
but I did anyway. He was my brother.

After he passed, I had his ashes
made into stones. Like river rock,
smooth and white. It's been suggested
that saying he'd have loved it as
he spent most of his life stoned,
was in poor taste. I can hear him laughing.
So glad I did it anyway.




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