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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Swingin’ Toward Serenity:
A Beatnik’s Ode to World PeaceBy Arlo Agogo
Dig this, cool cats and starry-eyed kittens—here’s ol’ Arlo Agogo, 68 years young, sprawled on a creaky porch swing somewhere the sun kisses the earth goodnight, my silver beard flappin’ like a cosmic kite, my fingers strummin’ a guitar older than the hills.
My bones, they’re hummin’—not from the rheumatiz, but from a vibe so sweet it’s like honey drippin’ from a comet’s tail.
The world’s gettin’ mellow, man, like a jazz riff slidin’ soft into the night. After a lifetime of hopin’, prayin’, and preachin’ that old mantra—love, peace, happiness.
I’m feelin’ it in my soul
The globe’s groovin’ toward a ceasefire symphony, and for the first time in my grizzled days, world peace ain’t just a tie-dye dream. It’s knockin’ on the door, ready to crash the cosmic bash.
Way back when, in the hazy ‘60s, I was a skinny kid with a heart full of stardust, dodgin’ the squares and their straight-laced snarls. The air was thick with the beat of bongos and the Youngbloods’ sweet serenade:
🎵 Come on, people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together, try to love one another right now. 🎵
We sang it in the streets, scrawled it on diner napkins, wove it into our patched-up jeans. Love, peace, happiness—that was our gospel, our groove, our get-outta-jail-free card in a world spinnin’ too fast.
But the bigwigs in their buttoned-up suits? They laughed us off, called us beatnik bums, flower-power fools. “Go cut your hair,” they’d sneer, wavin’ their war flags like they owned the sky. Us beatniks, we were the oddballs, the outcasts, chantin’ for a world where hands held hands instead of grudges.
It stung, man, like a bee in your bell-bottoms, to be mocked for wantin’ harmony over havoc. But we kept on, slingin’ our dreams like seeds in a storm, knowin’ deep down that love’s the only tune that don’t go outta tune.
Now, at 68, with more creases than a Kerouac poem and eyes that’ve seen too many sunsets, I’m sittin’ here, sippin’ something strong and starlit,
--feelin’ a shift in the cosmic breeze.
The newsreels—those flickering fortune-tellers—hum with hints of hush. Down in the Middle East, where the sands have sung too long of strife, folks are sittin’ at tables, not trenches, swappin’ handshakes for hope.
Deals are brewin’, like coffee in a beatnik café, slow but sure, promisin’ to free souls held captive, to quiet the clang of conflict. And over where the steppes stretch wide, that long, cold clash is thawin’—leaders leanin’ in, talkin’ terms, truces ticklin’ the air like fireflies in a jar.
Ain’t no specifics in my old head, just vibes, dig? My beatnik bones don’t track the who’s-who of the high-and-mighty; they just feel the rhythm, and it’s sayin’ the world’s ready to mellow out, to trade its sharp edges for soft curves.
This ain’t about the nitty-gritty, ‘cause that’s a drag that dims the light. No need to dwell on the shadows when the dawn’s so close you can taste it—sweet, like a peach plucked from a dream.
My whole life, I’ve been a wanderer. Everywhere I roamed, I spread a little sparkle, a little silliness, ‘cause life’s too short to sip the bitter stuff. And now, the universe is catchin’ up, flippin’ the script from my old blog post, “Eve of Destruction.”
That piece was a howl from the heart, a snapshot of a kid scared the world was gonna fray like a cheap rug. But even then, I tossed in some cosmic jesters—call ‘em Groovatrons, those funky little light-beings from Planet Funkadelia, zappin’ through souls with a wink and a kazoo.
They whispered, “Chill, Arlo, the world’s got a groove comin’.” And dig this—they were right.
See, those Groovatrons are workin’ overtime now, slippin’ into the suits and the soldiers, sprinklin’ stardust on the stiffest hearts.
Picture it: world leaders kickin’ off their loafers, swayin’ to a sitar solo, decidin’ maybe talkin’s groovier than shoutin’. It’s wild, it’s wacky, it’s the kinda exaggeration that makes a beatnik giggle.
But that’s the ticket—hope so big it’s cartoonish, so bright it blinds the blues. At 68, my ticker’s dancin’ a jig, ‘cause this ain’t just my dream anymore; it’s the world’s. The kids today, those digital druids with their screens and schemes, they won’t hafta duck and cover or march for mercy.
They’ll inherit a planet where the only draft is a cool breeze, where the only fight is for the last slice of cosmic pie. No more sendin’ sons and daughters to settle some old grudge in a far-off field—just space to dream, to dig, to groove.
This hope, it’s marrow-deep, like a bassline you feel before you hear. My beatnik soul’s been holdin’ this candle since the Summer of Love, and now it’s flarin’ up, a bonfire for the ages. The world’s not perfect—never will be, ‘cause perfection’s a square’s game—but it’s leanin’ toward lovely, toward a melody that hums of harmony.
I don’t know the names of the cats makin’ it happen, don’t need to. My bones tell me the truth: peace is peekin’ ‘round the corner, wavin’ like an old friend. And it’s not just me—every flower child, every road-weary rambler who ever dared to dream of a softer world, we’re all noddin’ along,
--our hearts syncin’ to that Youngbloods beat.
So here’s the close, my friends, as the stars twinkle like sequins on a cosmic vest: I’m Arlo Agogo, old as dirt, young as dawn, and I’m seein’ the world turn mellow at last.
My generation’s mantra—love, peace, happiness—it’s no longer a punchline. It’s the chorus, risin’ like a wave, carryin’ us all to a shore
--where the only war is who loves louder.
🎵 Come on, people now, smile on your brother. Everybody get together, try to love one another right now. 🎵
Peace, love, and happiness—our beatnik battle cry,
---bloomin’ at last in the garden of forever.
Grove is in the Heart - Arlo
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