01-07-2016, 12:09 AM
Beat
-Last week of October- Austin, Texas
Sittin’ on a leaning bench against a left tilting post-hunter S.
top sun photovoltaic green solar cell lamp on Cons-egress,
Aah-Ben-new, ferblocks arso sowth of the
Stay-it Cap-pee-tall Bill-ding sits an old man
who thinks he is still younger than twenty-nine.
Wearing steely gray strands
of hair-over blue collared work shirt,
jeans drywell worn out bottom topped-out
shirt-slick Red-Wing non-union work boots.
Overall a pretty good look foray-bum
without a smoke to his name.
He has long pointy Allen Ginsburg hands
that nervously and continuously turn
the Ann also Ryand pages
of a dark cheap blue fie-dolla-journal
with lines, on-lines, of scragglie-scrawlie scribble-script
from an ex-tree’-super-duper fine punt-bald-pount pæn.
One limp-wristed Ginsburg hand is currently holding
this self-same pæn, while the other, somewhat dainty hand,
with overly long yellowed nails,
thumbs thru the tepid tissues of ledger, note' leaf,
as the jaundiced handowner looks up with his
2% milk -fat lipid pale blue cataract eyes,
as the fingers continuing to stroll,
unconsciously down the imaginary jelly-roll lane
of the collective racial mass memory storage retaining area.
“Hey brother,”
The old man rumbles out raspilly
over fibrous strands of nicotine-filigreed mucus,
to a young pauser passing to slowly by.
“Spare a square?”
Young hand reaches into the over-priced light blue
Cool Arrow shirt pocket and pulls out a nearly empty
pack of Yellow Injuns that he hands to the old man.
“These do?”
“Sure man, thanks., ’preciate it.”
The Ginsburg hand fondles
the small white phallic symbol,
rolling it back and forth between two fingers,
feeling the tobacco crumple under the pressure,
then tamps it several times
before bringing it to the thin, dry lips
waiting to milk it,
like venom is milked
from poisonous snakes.
As the open flame ignites the tip:
he sucks hard
and extracts the combustible offering.
The old man draws deep the blue tinted
nick-‘O’-teen laced smoke with a sigh,
a sound that echoes
out the ancient cadaverous abyss
that are his lungs.
Straightly, Cool Arrow asks,
“What’s in the book?”
“This man? Just a little belles-lettres on beat.”
“Really? You a writer?’
“Sorta. I was almost famous once.
Got my brain bashed by a bottle of wine,
that Neal Cassady hit me with.”
“Wow, what happened?”
“Got five stitches man.”
“No, I mean, why did he do it.”
“Oh, I said that some stuff he wanted me to read,
by his boyfriend Kerouac’s sucked!”
“Man,” spurts Cool Arrow,
“You must be ancient,
that was like fifty years ago?”
Youth! Bringing on the feeling of sudden tiredness.
The old man’s head nods in a non-committed
committal way of a beetle1
The old man's attention turns back to his very cheaply
worn dark blue fie-dolla journal.
Cool Arrow, unaware of being dismissed,
wonders off in a Ritalin deficiency haze
thinking of strong coffee,
long nylon’d legs,
painted pouty lips,
and augmented udders.
He is a child of this new age:
artificial doesn’t bother him.
He was suckled on it.
-One week latter Cool Arrow, reading the daily rag-
erthona
©2005 rev 2016
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Word origin: Beetle: "Old English bīetel, from bēatan to beat ; related to Middle Low German bētel chisel, Old Norse beytill penis" Dictionary.com
Also, Beetle: backwoods priest during the transition between Old and Middle English periods, known for imbibing the sacramental wine, and thus the head nodding. -Dale
-Last week of October- Austin, Texas
Sittin’ on a leaning bench against a left tilting post-hunter S.
top sun photovoltaic green solar cell lamp on Cons-egress,
Aah-Ben-new, ferblocks arso sowth of the
Stay-it Cap-pee-tall Bill-ding sits an old man
who thinks he is still younger than twenty-nine.
Wearing steely gray strands
of hair-over blue collared work shirt,
jeans drywell worn out bottom topped-out
shirt-slick Red-Wing non-union work boots.
Overall a pretty good look foray-bum
without a smoke to his name.
He has long pointy Allen Ginsburg hands
that nervously and continuously turn
the Ann also Ryand pages
of a dark cheap blue fie-dolla-journal
with lines, on-lines, of scragglie-scrawlie scribble-script
from an ex-tree’-super-duper fine punt-bald-pount pæn.
One limp-wristed Ginsburg hand is currently holding
this self-same pæn, while the other, somewhat dainty hand,
with overly long yellowed nails,
thumbs thru the tepid tissues of ledger, note' leaf,
as the jaundiced handowner looks up with his
2% milk -fat lipid pale blue cataract eyes,
as the fingers continuing to stroll,
unconsciously down the imaginary jelly-roll lane
of the collective racial mass memory storage retaining area.
“Hey brother,”
The old man rumbles out raspilly
over fibrous strands of nicotine-filigreed mucus,
to a young pauser passing to slowly by.
“Spare a square?”
Young hand reaches into the over-priced light blue
Cool Arrow shirt pocket and pulls out a nearly empty
pack of Yellow Injuns that he hands to the old man.
“These do?”
“Sure man, thanks., ’preciate it.”
The Ginsburg hand fondles
the small white phallic symbol,
rolling it back and forth between two fingers,
feeling the tobacco crumple under the pressure,
then tamps it several times
before bringing it to the thin, dry lips
waiting to milk it,
like venom is milked
from poisonous snakes.
As the open flame ignites the tip:
he sucks hard
and extracts the combustible offering.
The old man draws deep the blue tinted
nick-‘O’-teen laced smoke with a sigh,
a sound that echoes
out the ancient cadaverous abyss
that are his lungs.
Straightly, Cool Arrow asks,
“What’s in the book?”
“This man? Just a little belles-lettres on beat.”
“Really? You a writer?’
“Sorta. I was almost famous once.
Got my brain bashed by a bottle of wine,
that Neal Cassady hit me with.”
“Wow, what happened?”
“Got five stitches man.”
“No, I mean, why did he do it.”
“Oh, I said that some stuff he wanted me to read,
by his boyfriend Kerouac’s sucked!”
“Man,” spurts Cool Arrow,
“You must be ancient,
that was like fifty years ago?”
Youth! Bringing on the feeling of sudden tiredness.
The old man’s head nods in a non-committed
committal way of a beetle1
The old man's attention turns back to his very cheaply
worn dark blue fie-dolla journal.
Cool Arrow, unaware of being dismissed,
wonders off in a Ritalin deficiency haze
thinking of strong coffee,
long nylon’d legs,
painted pouty lips,
and augmented udders.
He is a child of this new age:
artificial doesn’t bother him.
He was suckled on it.
-One week latter Cool Arrow, reading the daily rag-
“Unknown man remains hanging from tree on walking trail between
town-lake and the “Austin-American-Stateman,”newspaper for three days:
Witnesses said they thought it was a Halloween prank.
Several people thought it was the most life-like display
they had ever see, and sure to win first place.
“Yes,” said one
Even down to that God-awful smell. V-e-r-y Authentic.”
The only possession found was small dark blue journal book.
The writing in which was mostly unintelligible
and gave no clue as to the man’s identity.
Anyone who might know the identity of this individual
is asked to please contact the city police ”
erthona
©2005 rev 2016
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1. Word origin: Beetle: "Old English bīetel, from bēatan to beat ; related to Middle Low German bētel chisel, Old Norse beytill penis" Dictionary.com
Also, Beetle: backwoods priest during the transition between Old and Middle English periods, known for imbibing the sacramental wine, and thus the head nodding. -Dale
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.