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UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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DON PESAVENTO
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. |
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© 2008 Underground Voices |
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