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.