Beats and an Attempt at Poetry

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: