POETRY

 

Indiana Cries For You Every God Damn Night, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Don't You Forget It -- 2/8/2000

Sitting against concrete column in Clowes Hall,
chin on one knee, turned awkwardly
toward stage to hear Ferlinghetti read poems
in 80-year-old Burl Ivesian beatnik lilt lifting
satorial simplicity out of doggerel pen of posey
into a murky atmosphere of teen-aged English majors
dying slow of ennui and lucky star old timers jumping
at the word cock in among American haikus --

Onstage Big Sur muses on fine ladies' stockings
falling softly to the floor, turning him on like shiny candies
in store windows beneath pink awnings on Coney Island.
The fire that consumed Neal and Jack
still smolders within him -- you can hear it crackle --
so, sad -- his poetic impression of Indiana --
hermetically-sealed mono-cultural mall.
Things would have been different had he read at Soma.

We'd put him up at Grant Street Inn,
plop him down by stained reflecting pools
at Sanders Quarry with notebook and pen,
share copious bowls of sweet skunky
wholesome homegrown herb
on courthouse steps 'round midnight
and contemplate the Indiana Theatre sign
on a Broadway amid cornfields.

Meanwhile, you're rapping with Julia
about your past, our unsettling present,
the ever-hungry future, in reverent tones
that only you can hear, heather lea --
should be scrunched right next to me
in hard cold alcove
straining to hear through a flaccid PA,
relying on plywood acoustics and faith
to clear the context of any perseverating
Black Monday maudlin obfuscation.

John leans over, says he likes a line:
"Two tepees tilted," and I nod,
make traditional Japanese grunt of assent,
imagine strolling with heather lea
through garden debris of home --
squash blossom web
now devoid of tendrils
folded up against the barn
to make room for our home improvement.

Man at mike snickers like a kid
standing on tip toe on soap box -- still!
Unmoved by obscenity cases of banned books
swinging under dusty City Lights,
uncontent with love poet laureate of the Haight, 1967.
Still! -- complaining about the state of the world
but having a good time yeah -- sing out!
sing wide beneath cypress trees of love,
and pretending Edward Hopper even cared
that his subjects were more depressed than he.

heather lea waiting up for me when I get home
weary from the twice-lost trip to No Place --
I have been more exhausted than this,
on the road and off, but I'm still burning
fantasizing -- introducing Lawrence to your mom --
hell, there's a spare futon upstairs he can crash on.
In the morning he'll decline stern coffee,
trudging out through new mud
of fresh-laid septic finger system -- plowed
right smack through the middle of the garden
and on into disgorged pile of rocks --
once holiest hell of all fire pits --
to walk the land in hand-sewn hemp sandals
and, upon returning, gesturing
beyond a tangle of sticks and strings
upside a painful old barn, would ask,
"What's all this about?"
and I'd just jerk my bleary thumb in your direction
'cause this poem is going nowhere, baby,
and that tale would be better told by you.

 

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