The Ghosts of Beat

We used to sit in coffee shops

Hesitant but not alone

As Jack made a face

And Allen weeped a poem.

And we demanded it

As we did ourselves,

In that bustling café

Which on some nights,

Came alive with thought

When all thought the world

Would never change

And we were mad,

Mad as ever,

Mad about books and life

And friendships

Under that murky haze of a time remembered,

But never forgotten.

I will sit idly and weep

Of my colleagues of now,

Who take sips in whimpers

While staring at the

Metal headed frame

That binds them here.

What happened to Jack?





The rustling of a few mugs

And shallow beers and I remember,

O I will remember the Zen Lunatics staring

avidly at the dim scene

Of a midnight café

Alive with talking

Alive with ideas

Alive with death

And time will play a waltzy tune

To pass the tragedy

Of times remembered,

And times forgotten.


One thought on “The Ghosts of Beat

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