Weave in, weave out,
looking for one single moment of gastrointestinal clarity,
I don't really care for your charity,
but I'll take it just the same,
the Beats were a motley crew with no fixed point star,
just a mass of hazy stares, glaring out into the abyss
when no abyss existed, it was merely a playing field
for the thought dreams to be seen
heads in guillotines,
that's right, Bobby, that's right, you come
right out of that muddled mess and
bring some sense to the door,
Interesting how the great American songwriters
emerged out of the Great Depression Oklahoma dust
like the primordial firstborn Adam
walking toward the 20th century from the fog
of the nothing-that-was.
the heartbeat of America is a vein of poetry
that flows through the land, and these
poets, erstwhile musicians, these poets
merely tap into the vein,
like a sideways shock into the shale
and let the poetry ooze out through through
the pores of the earth and spray
into the air, the gas gets flared, and the
words lost in the edit are the
putrified water that gets shot
back into the aquifer.
sometimes the people can't tell the poetry
from the dredge,
that's where the internet comes in.
If you're reading these words in a book, then
buddy, that's poetry.
If you're reading these words online, then
you're wasting your time.
Go read a book.
MR
2014-1009
