As many of you know, I used to fancy myself as a Poet (I believe J once referred to me as the Poet Laureate of U Heights). I bought a book recently called "The Beats, from Kerouac to Kesey: a Photo Journey of the Beat Generation". I must say, I was transfixed.
Long a fan of the beat squad (Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William Burroughs), I've always noticed eerie parallels in my group and the group Kerouac would later dub "The Dharma Bums". Our music shaped our words, in much the same way jazz shaped the phrases and sentences on On the Road, Howl, or Naked Lunch. My only question now is, when do we start writing?
Here's a shot. I haven't written a poem, a free-form, not-necessarily-love poem in quite some time. So bare with me. This may become a regular feature of the blog. It may not.
Bat
Flowing slowly through
Rougher trails of innuendo
And moxie, finding each grain
A star beyond itself, they look
Where looking lacks
Exits sign on to a beleagured
Frolic of freon zones exonerated
Only by a spackle made up of the
Soul or the place it should have
Been and wasn't
To be on that open highway
Blue in the morning like an amputated
Car antenna, we can never find
That hope of having hope, only
Left-over, stale generations who
Didn't know what lost was until they
Saw the likes of you
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Hope you enjoyed that....here's the song of the week:
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