Beats Me

I knew Ginsberg a little,

but I was part of the second wave,

the hippies that Kerouac despised.

The Sixties was a Renaissance of 

the spirit, fueled by L.S.D..

We eschewed the American Dream,

the Eisenhower big daddy scheme,

and tried to find our own ways out

of a frozen society.

It was a dangerous calling, and many

died, but at least not in Vietnam.

We made it up as we went along.

Politically, the movement was a failure.

1968 Democrat convention the high water

mark. It was fun in Chicago, chanting with

Ginsberg and his ilk, until Daley’s cops

beat everyone up.

Notice it was the Democrats we were protesting,

so, at least we got that right.

The movement went underground, yet continues 

to this day. 

My poetry is faint proof of that, my mind is free,

no longer closeted in wishful thinking,

the carrot on the stick of material success,

that hollow victory.

The “archaic revival” concept came out of our

travails, our celebrations, our adventures.

Ancient wisdom, hard to see in this dark age.

“Don’t freak out the straight people.” was one 

of our slogans, because that seemed to be what

we were good at.

I remember being in a bus station in Minneapolis,

my friends and I, high, blowing bubbles.

The Ticketmaster came out of his booth and told us:

“Stop blowing bubbles, the old people don’t like it.”

Amazing and indicative of those times.

Not a beatnik, but I sure am beat, 

not looking for a victory I can bank,

each day stripped down to essentials,

back to the senses,

the trees, flowers, weather an opera

of phenomenon not made of the soap 

rendered from the corpses of industry,

of ambition, of useless endeavor.

You go ahead, I’m beaten, 

but I’m better off here.