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Credibility
was a coffee-house, beard and hair and
Stan Getz and playing chess, '50's hip and we would
not conform, conforming to our non-conformity,
seeking some acceptance, looking for our truths.
We
tried so hard to emulate the leaders of the
cause we somehow overlooked ourselves, being
warless, Korea gone and lost, rebels without
causes, pursuing ghosts, searching for our voices.
The
words were new and we were ready for the
words. We were raised with Stephenson and Poe
and Twain, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, the Lost who
left no path for us to follow so we looked for
something, our identity, we listened to strange
words, far-out, profane, anti damned-near
everything, we mostly didn't mind the anti-things
we'd learned from parents and Establishment.
Dim
interiors, incense, smoky, cigarettes and
weed, the silly sight of intense silly people, dressed
darkly, turtle-necks and leotards, speaking needfully
with cautious lips, learning the new gone language,
boasting newly of old philosophies, new prophets,
same songs, new Beat poets, center-stage,
interpreting the text, righting wrongs and proudly
semi-comatose, verbose, proud to be the conduit
of the hip imposter consciousness, rabid converts,
convinced and leaning heavily on others, stealing
from the early thoughts, bum poets, gone, blown
away and shown to exits happily thinking they
contributed, reveling in the birth of new thought
(we thought) our intoxicated minds bumped
brains together searching for originality, bruising
virgin egos, discovering volume and emotion were
no substitutes for truths we had within…already.
A
light came on, revealing canvas painted not with
thoughts we sought, the colors wrong, we'd followed
some false prophets, Paradise and Moriarty on the road
to nowhere, mouthing mantras from their foreign gods.
Looking
back at wild-eyed Ginsberg howling, switching
from espresso back to Folgers, questioning the relevance
of Kerouac, he supported by lonely women, rudderless,
irresponsible, Beat just for the spotlight, sometimes brilliant,
mostly mooching, stealing, bragging, lusting for the greenbacks,
he the least real, big user with puny sounds, little fury,
signifying nothing of great importance, just his ego, simpering.
We
were learning fast. Our cynicism overcame the coffee-house
and we grew stronger in our own creative selves, sifting grain
from
chaff, finding Ferlinghetti and the energy and rhythm, finding
purpose
in our words, but…even now… we're still a little beat.
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