, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


in suit only.

Clouded by whiteness

when faced by blackness.

Shadowed songster

with fiery hair and

Emerald City-colored shirt

that hangs over

faded-sky denim.


Zoot-suitish Brett Dennen’s

music authentically enthralls,

vassalizes, Grateful Dead-head


with lovely-crafted lines.

Still, a suited life,

an outcried tear


below left eye.

He sings:


I wonder how so many can be in so much pain /

while others don’t seem to feel a thing. /

Then I curse my whiteness, /

and I feel so damned depressed. /

In a world with suffering, /

why should I be so blessed?


Quintessential hippie,

Jack Kerouac,

snapped our fingers


carriaged black ribbon over

his ’51 taped-paper scroll:


I walked with ever-

-y muscle aching

among the lights of

27th and

Welton in the Den-


ver colored section,


wishing I were a Negro,


feeling that the best

the white world had of-

-fered was not enough


ecstasy for me,

not enough life, joy,

kicks, darkness, music,


not enough night.

Brett Dennen

Brett Dennen

by S.A. Bort (except for bold-texts by Brett Dennen and Jack Kerouac)

top photo by S.A. Bort

[see my post Hippies! for a history of hippies.]