passed by steel station wagons, blue backpack on one slumping shoulder - the world was younger, with innocence bouncing on its dewey heels and yet it was older, its ways still harboring those of hidden paths in emerald forests.
in my backpack were books of poetry,
Kerouac and his Dharma wrestling with the country, Duncan bending the bow to release delight and words to honor her under the hill, momentos to life, Olson opening the field for all to explore, Snyder exploring the myths with text that took us to the Orient and back while riding a turtle. and, of course, Corso poured gasoline on the whole scene while Ginsberg howled at angels, poverty, and Paradise Alley.
I still have my Lew Welch who
walked away from his cabin in '71 never to be seen or heard on page or bookstore reading again. working as a poet he saw himself “a ring of bone in the clear stream of all of it
and vowed, always to be open to it.” What vows have I made of late and am I always open to it?
Lew...asleep in the mountains somewhere...
caught me unawares at time.
I would make coffee for you
if you would wake up one more time and bring the scene with you again.