Well, I mean you know at the start
it seemed
mostly
living with whores in rundown apartments,
maybe
in New Orleans and maybe elsewhere,
chopping
garlic cloves and riding the bus,
confessional
to a fault, words splayed on a page,
mostly
alphabetical scattershot thrown at the wall
to
see what sticks, but maybe you were howling like Alan
or
riding a Coney Island mind, a Ferlinghetti whirligig,
a
metronome ticking to the beat of a Beat
over
and over again while drinking gin.
You
could just as soon have written
about
Vaseline hair or Thousand Island dressing
or
some female French Quarter anatomy
wrapped
in a kimono, and maybe you were
as
free and loose as Mary Oliver,
only
with a little heron acid trip thrown in
for
some seasoning, word jambalaya on the bayou,
and
in the end I guess it was kind of hip,
kind
of cool with a standup bass
and
poetry slams in a coffeehouse kind of way.
~William Hammett
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