POOF!
and the light is out:
the bearded bard
slipped into the silent howling
Coma Sutra,
then out
through the other side.
70; a good round number
- no loose ends -
70 orbits, and the end
of these particular earthly explorations
* * *
the ten thousand muses gather
(and walt whitman),
the veil is lifted
and this old boy-loving poet
(though once he tried to seduce my ex-wife's sister
on the way to the SF airport)
scatters in the bliss
of cosmic chaos,
traveling freely
at last
* * *
the red wine SF poetry readings,
the Berkeley Hindu cushion chants,
the "Land's End" psychedelic revival
poetry benefit for t. leary
- these were moments to treasure,
and we did, in the great boiling
social stew of amerika:
budding poets and artists
looking to the "old men"
for the keys to unlock
these hungry minds
* * *
the great human traipse
through this drama
continues; and on the same day,
Mo dies, owner of "Mo's Books" in Berkeley,
the very place i'd buy these well-worn copies
of "Reality Sandwhich" and Burroughs
and Corso and Snyder and McClure:
'twas a day of literary departure,
to be sure
* * *
on the road:
on the tip of the tongue
the words that express gratitude
for a lifetime of inspiration.
"the best minds"
the enduring spirit,
the ecstasies and the torments
of these savage hearts.
and words, poetic clues
to understanding the eternal;
and at the end of the road
the comet and the worms
will feast, the ashes will scatter far,
the spirit, farther.
BLESS THE VOID, allen:
may the muse be with you always!
* * * * *
4-6-97
(c) r. evers '97