The Beats

They were outside, looking inside out,
hipster rabbits in blue jeans, always
checking their melted pocket watches,
and late for their 3 P.M.
followed by Alice through the looking glass,
down the bunny hole, daddy o

a cappella be bop and Dion doo wop

prequel black-bereted beatnik charismatics
with jazzy hazel behind dark shades,
bristling porcupine-quill goatees
up at the mic.Ginsberg-speaking in tongues
a cunna nundrum sala famadon

catnip, catnap, cool cat, kraaazy kat, man

howling poems in smoke-filled, psilocybin
coffeehouse auditoriums of the karmic mind
filled with hip congregations of black-leotarded
stick-figured chicks with thin lips pursed by
talk about Beat being the Cock of the Walk,
double entendres thrown from their mouths
like dice coming up snake eyes
turning into domino pips on the gleaming
ivory faces of enraptured zealots
chanting myoho renge kyo mantras, swirling
like eddies in a Ganges river of ears
pulled downstream by ultimate life currents
funneled into vortices of phonemic ecstasy

be bop bongo pop, wowsville, man

smack like Kerouac on Rt.66
in a vette, strung-out on morphemes,
mainlining Main Street America
while somnambulist Cassady,
delirious from white-line fever, held
the wheel steady and narcoleptic at 96.5

Like, Jack was never on the road, man.
He was the road . Do you dig?

Straight from the jacket, Jack, like a cracker
jack Cadillac wrapped in Dali mohair inside a
round Dada box floating above the post WWII
mushroom cloud pushing obscene tsunami
towards Fisherman’s Wharf,
where Ferlinghetti faced Alcatraz specters
sentenced to float in fog for 30 years,
with time off for good behavior

where the killer-crescendo A-bomb spark
fractured the syntax of water and split the ripe
commie watermelon of opiate Mao spilling red
onto San Francisco’s bluesy shore, its seeds
spit out like AK bullets turning into swallowtail
butterflies, mid air, flying towards a sixties sky.

where Snyder felt seismic
premonitions from Turtle Island
7.5 on the Pulitzer scale

where Corso sat, reading Big Table magazine,
sipping from a bowl of alphabet soup
whose letters spelled STRANGELOVE in French

where Lenny violated aural taboos
and broke the 12th commandment of:
thou shalt not swear in public

where Burroughs waited, unaware
the cyber-stalker of the future would
leave his Naked Lunch dusty and ignored
on the shelves of forgotten bookstores,
superceded by internet man hunters, tracking
homoero holograms lasered on virtual dance
floor gas station bathrooms; fingers on triggers
of high octane pumps squeezed into hyper drive
in dark parks, where packs of immune-deficient
werewolves prowled beneath an 80's moon

where now 40 million forget to reminisce.

Anais Nin: L'Heure Bleue

The blue hour perfume hesitates
like a turquoise tear, before falling
cerulean through her hourglass night;
a mauve nocturne of
low saxophone notes
and amaretto sorrows,
echoing footfalls of younger years
departing her dark almond-forest hair;
and she listens, eyes kept closed,
so as not to awaken from a dream
about to come true, blossoming
within herself; an indigo rose,
unfolding lavender lovers
pressed violet against her lips.

Don is a 21st century Buckaroo Banzai, of sorts,
former Rock singer from Chicago's South Side,
degree in Lit. and Med. He has yet to perfect
an Oscillation Overthruster.

© 2008 Underground Voices