Smoking Man

    There is this man; a gentle and sturdy looking man. He sits on the top of Volkswagen bus, smoking on a long ivory tobacco pipe; the shape of a rhino. There is a thing about this man, that never leaves and never demands; he is a wizard of a sort, a jewel miner of another. The fine young ladies all dance in his presence, as they pass by the 1969 German automobile. The scruffy man is smoking a native Indian blend of kind tobacco, makes him woozy, in a great way. Love symbols spew from his lips, not for anyone in particular, just for the women that hold their dresses and twirl, and twirl. He is sitting cross legged, puffing on his pipe, murmuring small talk to himself about the wolves and golfers that praise the moons glow as it races towards the earth's endless edge of eagerness. We are those symbols of life like Aries and Hercules. The whole thing is a piece of a story that shivers lightly; migrate! Migrate mighty mice and moles and mud rats and mold! He gives everyone hugs, for free, no paper money trail he needs, he gives and gives for free.
     There is this Tree, this awfully huge growing tree.  For me, for you, for them, for the truth, the birds and the roots, the roots! Oh Soil, don't toil with me, oh soil, you are so cute! Such beauty! Smoke on Man!  Blow your symbols and groove beyond!