Beatified

I am one of those lost souls,
the last generation destroyed
by madness, pent up frustration
and teenage angst.
I saunter down sleepy
suburban streets
to hang out at strip-malls,
shopping centers, burger joints
and pizza parlors.
Bar hopping, bike riding and park
jumping from Ally Pond
to Forest Park
just looking for a buzz
       or something
                       better to do.

Escape into the city
Shuffle down to Union Square
get high, catch a show
at the Palladium, drink
at Max’s Kansas City
a barbarian on barbiturates,
drown in shots of bourbon
       and bottles of beer
stumble down the road
       to Washington Square.

Deal with the cock slingers,
cock suckers, mother-fuckers
who sell snow to Eskimos, pills
for thrills, coke, crack, smoke
and smack, mount
the great white horse
a black knight chasing
the dragon
       for nights on end. 

I give up the quest
find serenity on St Marks Place,
a sense of spirituality
tempered by reality, science
      and psychology,
and shun organized religion,
a mixture of fact, fiction
      and fantasy,
pseudo intellectual mythology
that passes as absolute truth,

I truck down to W 12th Street,
spend a couple of years
at my old school learning
      something new.

Now I stand on the corner across
from the Bowery Poetry Club,
at Joey Ramone Place formally 2nd Street.

And someone stole the sign again.

CBGBs is gone, replaced by
         The Morrison Hotel Gallery.
 
Jim is in Paris rolling over in his grave
or is he laughing on how things
have changed, but remain
          the same.

I cross the street, notice my name
scrawled on the chalkboard
outside the Poetry Club,
a feature for the Beat Hour.

Inside the picture of Allen Ginsberg
with bushy black hair, beard, glasses
and Uncle Sam top hat
looks down smiling.

It’s all cool and I’m finally here.