if thoughts could say


Hippie Senators and Orators Age Of Enlightenment

In part this journey begins and centers around a Park with a full sized replica of The Parthenon within that park. A decorative faux stone wall surrounded the Park separating the inner world of Park from the bordering streets. Cherubs embossed on the face of the wall, cement seraphim playing tiny gray harps, puckish faces garlanded in concrete flowers. Young people would meet to sit and talk and vibe on this wall on weekends. It was our San Fran, Market Street. It was a thing ‘The Wall that’s where I first met Steven, others, became my tribe during those far gone times of Western myth, The Market Place was on The Boulevard next to the Park and Wall. Steven Fancy and Indian Joseph were two young earthlings, foundlings, changelings, became friends, experienced adventures and misadventures in and around the aura generated by places, people and events of that time and circles of time into the stormy geography of adulthood. Steven Fancy in time would evolve into the greatest undiscovered guitar player to never achieve widespread fame, a massive talent without massive popularity. Forever famous to those who knew, unknown to everyone else.The songs he wrote are still out there to be found in the digital aether. YT Universe. The life he lived, the things he saw. In a way we were more than friends, two sides of the same fateful coin. Tossed by gigantic hands into the sea of time to learn to swim or sink. We both rose and sank into the multitude as do all.How I wish, how I wish he were here to tell his own story.It’s a highly interesting if not always a good one. Steven liked to play, and not always safely. Safety is a bogus insurance policy. He took it all too far, but boy could he play guitar. Indian Joseph is me as seen in retrospect through time-worn but not utterly defeated insightful creative lenses. A very proudly disturbed young post nuclear man child. Indian Joseph as was Steven D. Fancy and are many character actors developed on the stage of life and survival, protean beings born with native skills of mimic mimetic adaptation. One day many years after the starring roles-play of our youth had closed and faded into memory, picture word lines framed in thought albums. Steven would be gone, perhaps to compose music on a greater scale. Leaving me to tell the tale. The me who is Now. Old man in a dry house in a dry season.




Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-07-23 at 03:23

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