(To Meli and Lamar)

In August '95 of hot discontent,
of gender battles at The Citadel
and war in the nightmare Balkans,
in August '95 of indecisive hurricane Felix,
(he of the high winds and tides that rip our Eastern shores
but goes nowhere for days and in so doing reflects
our torn state of mind,)
in the incendiary month of the Long Island fires,
in turbulent August '95 in which our losses mount,
Jerry and The Mick together play forever.

They saunter down a starlit and infinite highway,
towards where the dear departed fans,
grinning from ear to ear, await in droves.
The jubilant crowds gather,
uniform in their heavenly garb of plasma clouds and glittering stars,
no longer identifiable by tie-dyed clothes or baseball caps,
no longer in line hoping for good seats,
no longer counting change or hoping for a miracle,
no longer holding ticket stubs,
because there is no admission fee and there are no bad seats in the beyond
and the hot dogs and beer and pot and acid are all free
and of a different kind (hey, get your ambrosia here!).
The throngs collect in ranks endlessly deep to watch
Jerry toss baseballs made of rich harmonies that pour
out of his musical and celestial cornucopia of songs.
Mickey effortlessly hits them and his hits are planetary events,
comets, meteors, shooting stars, supernovas lighting
distant dark skies.
Jerry and The Mick together play forever,
and they sing songs in unison in tune with the universe,
the music of the spheres,
and, yes!, the fans know all the words
and dance and sing happily along.

Jerry and The Mick forever play together,
laughing and having fun, all travails forgotten,
all their poor human condition left behind,
all that was flawed,
all that was hurt,
all that was wounded
all that was sad or lonely or incomplete
already forgiven or made whole, as it will be for us all,
and only joy remains,
the joy of singing a good song (like "Dark Star") well,
the joy of the perfect unstoppable swing.
and for the others,
the joy of watching Jerry Garcia perform once more,
or of hearing the crack of the bat as the mighty Mick connects.
Because after death we will do what we loved best on earth,
and some of us will be fans, forever straining to catch the perfect play
or favorite song, incessantly hunting for a treasured tie or autograph,
and for the stars the season or the concert never ends.

And so, Jerry and The Mick forever play together,
and even God, dressed in tie-dyed garments,
dreadlocks flowing under a Yankees' cap,
smiles and applauds this cosmic event
that has made the dead grateful for the wait.

(© Copyright 1997 by Guillermo Echanique. All rights reserved. For reprint permissions contact Wil Wynn, 50 Arlo Rd., 1A, Staten Island, NY. 10301; Tel. (718) 8167340, email WilWynn@aol.com.)