after the Howl deluge

[revolutionrabbit]

I saw the bongos beating into the ancient modern alleys of eternity
the wild haired poets of the huge out patient clinic of collapsing empire
I pulled on Ginsberg's beard in my fevered awakenings to the real Howl
I wandered through city lights into basements were sleepy eyed poets
sat in zen position for hours as the pages of poetry books turned slow
the minds of beat writers floating in coffee houses contemplating black
and day dreaming ashes falling off of imaginary cigarettes in subways
that turns into snow inside visions that hung out in blade runner streets
who neon movie heads float across tall buildings in smog headed cities
I walked in china town alleyways reading a copy of Golden Sardine
thinking about that night in 55 when Allen read Howl in North Beach
I passed into Kerouac alley before they called it that thinking of shock
treatments and crazy mad poets in green Chevy station wagon who
ate fish burgers before getting on the coast highway to arrive in Frisco
in some other time when the blessed damned minds of young Rimbaud
driving slow up the highway talking about finding books in used book
stores where fogs walk like Haight Ashbury angels in dream through
golden gate park pan handle looking for happy fixes of LSD freedoms
who dropped purple capsules in hallucinating psychedelic store fronts
crying to the flower children who crawled out of the Beatnik fifties
from the black and white television dead beat mickey mouse A bomb
we the bums of time burning in the holy hearts of unidentified flying
saucers who came from Kansas and Wisconsin to wear poet flowers
in their hippie heads searching for love & peace in the wasted wasteland
asking where the Blake headed hipsters ended up in paradise gutters
of consciousness asking for spare change in the crepuscular holy dawn
whose second hand typewriter crowned oblivion in On The Road sermons
speaking of Naked Lunch and reality sandwich in teenager backrooms
listening to Bob Dylan on the record player until the purple haze clears
waiting for the drug to come on so the dripping poetry of the language
that he used can smoke a marijuana rainbow when the traffic light changed
who called Philip Lamantia in a phony phone booth in 71 to initiate himself
into surrealism because he did not know at the time that Philip influenced
Allen Ginsberg to write howl with peyote insight into the starry starry dynamo

[dadio]

one of the best poems I have read in a while. Excellent.

[mnaz]

. . . children who crawled out of the Beatnik fifties
from the black and white television dead beat mickey mouse A bomb
we the bums of time burning in the holy hearts of unidentified flying
saucers who came from Kansas and Wisconsin to wear poet flowers. . .

free-flow power-burner... the whole thing rocked. really dug this part.

the cia experimented with acid back in the '50s... looking for some kinda "truth serum" to help with that world domination thing. they soon realized, 'whoops, that ain't workin', better put the clamps on that one'... not sure why i brought it up. just part of the ongoing 'revolution'...