HOWL

For Mothers Everywhere, with apologies to beat poet Allen Ginsberg, who foretold the parallel insanity so well.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by

madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the dish-strewn kitchens at dawn

looking for an angry cup of coffee,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly

connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery

of 3 a.m. feedings,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat

up nursing in the supernatural darkness of

cold-water flats floating across the tops of suburbs

contemplating sleep . . .

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-

ing their money in wastebaskets and listening

to the Terror through the wall.

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