04-21-2017, 12:38 AM
Hemp, Haiku & Social Lies
He toured Kansas, then Greenwich
where he lived as a postulant, later
described as the happiest time of
his life. With a face reminiscent
of Kurt Vonnegut, or a pumpkin
going flat, he aged quickly along
with American innocence, if there
ever was such a thing. The hippies
thought him a god-like blend of
hemp, haiku and hitchhiking, a
view he never admitted to being true.
Authorities long considered him
a poet in times of war, a lector
at the City Lights Bookstore,
a soldado of North Beach, and
of that they could not abide.
He went to the camps, went to
shore, and finally went to ground.
His daughter, Mary, changed her
name to Mariana. His third wife
hanged herself. No record remains
of the man having lived or died, but
for what were his words, and now
this, and only after tea and peyote.
A pipe plays slow and long. Low
thunder sloshes from the Rockies to
Brooklyn, Chicago to Frisco, streets
on the hill, tilted toward the sea.
[Note: I woke last night and read the prompt, fell back to sleep thinking of horror films and legendary monsters. This morning I hunched over my keyboard and started writing. This is what resulted. What's this have to do with horror films and monsters? Well, it was prompted by the prompt - so that's it. I wish myself better luck tomorrow.]
He toured Kansas, then Greenwich
where he lived as a postulant, later
described as the happiest time of
his life. With a face reminiscent
of Kurt Vonnegut, or a pumpkin
going flat, he aged quickly along
with American innocence, if there
ever was such a thing. The hippies
thought him a god-like blend of
hemp, haiku and hitchhiking, a
view he never admitted to being true.
Authorities long considered him
a poet in times of war, a lector
at the City Lights Bookstore,
a soldado of North Beach, and
of that they could not abide.
He went to the camps, went to
shore, and finally went to ground.
His daughter, Mary, changed her
name to Mariana. His third wife
hanged herself. No record remains
of the man having lived or died, but
for what were his words, and now
this, and only after tea and peyote.
A pipe plays slow and long. Low
thunder sloshes from the Rockies to
Brooklyn, Chicago to Frisco, streets
on the hill, tilted toward the sea.
[Note: I woke last night and read the prompt, fell back to sleep thinking of horror films and legendary monsters. This morning I hunched over my keyboard and started writing. This is what resulted. What's this have to do with horror films and monsters? Well, it was prompted by the prompt - so that's it. I wish myself better luck tomorrow.]