San’s screams shattered Francisco –
and echoed in houses across the heartland:
new thoughts slung from rustic rucksacks;
new thoughts hung on fustian wallpaper;
TRUTH slung from young tongued
bums high and strung out on that
Ameri-can’t take this shit any longer
juice.
Howlin’ Allen – drowning in teargas –
hanging out in the hallways of
the houses that raised me.
Jumpin Joe Jack – an invisible attitude –
vicarious – in my father’s atlas collection
and my led foot.
Lucid Bukowski – found me naturally:
never drink
with a straw.
Twenty-five years young and
here I was – providence provided –
where the BEAT STARTED!
I walked from the Tenderloin,
suitcase-saddled and suit-sweating,
towards the Embarcadero, getting
lost in the smoky side streets,
the steaming gut of the city,
the seedy strip clubs
showered in soda lime glass,
NEON XXX
stranded wire, and stopcock signage
LIVE GIRLS
that made me want to
sell my travelling bags –
sell my flight to Texas –
and do good bad terrible things,
I felt the fight
against OSCENITY
in my blood
just like Ginsberg
felt it in his HOWL,
his 520 copies in custody –
his two men in jail –
his “redeeming social importance.”
City Lights Bookstore shined
through the alley like a radical
beacon of history – and inside,
the hallowed wood creaked
under my innocent footsteps –
as if mocking my decision to ignore
the RADICAL words lurking in attic
in favor of the CHILDREN’S
literature in the basement.
I was in love at the time – or close enough –
and an almost lover in a book store doesn’t stand
a blind chance. So I eschewed the TRUTH
and sought out NOVELTY in the basement –
I bought her an illustrated book about a fish
that steals a whale’s hat – a book that had it all –
death and daggers – and, of course –
a Jack Kerouac T-shirt that she never once wore.
I still wear that shirt
every
single
week and wonder
what would’ve happened had I
let the floorboards guide me.