Woodstock, a distant clearing in a park,
somewhere in New York State
where seeds lay lulled in the ground
for well-established decades
until awakened by pacifists' feet.

I was just stardust: ethereal, unreal,
less a dreamer than a dream
who ran the circumference of earth
and streaked the cosmos
as carbon fell on that foreign mire,

like lost breath in a hot summer residue.
Conscript leafleteers swayed, tranquil
as summer elms, soldiers burnt
their typecast futures,
while the crowd hummed that harmony

that was both America and not America,
that was set to the tune of Universal Soldier
Is this footage all that is left of 100,000 faces?
100,000 memories of unwrinkled
flesh and dreams. And 100,000 photons?

Jimi, hawk-taloned-dove, fresh from Vietnam,
shoulders caged in braided suede jacket,
frizzy hair free of communist-red bandana.
His flesh splinters on steel strings as he plays
that rare, raw moment through time to us.