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Wake up, Lew.

January 22, 2011

shuffling down the asphalt street,


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.

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