The birth of an Icon .

The clock that ticks out our time never rests Tattered children play with chockalott-coated razor blades. Loose dirt swirls across a vacant lot

Dragonflies scour over the pond. A Humming bird succors pollen from a flower. A praying mantis rubs its stick legs together A squirrel jumps from the limb of a tree.

The church bell rings at noon in the bell tower above the chapel on the hill A bag-lady collects plastic bottles and aluminum cans from trash receptacles on the citys streets. After dumping them in a shopping cart she continues her rounds, Clothed in raggedy garments given to her by the Salvation Army, She is one of the forgotten souls that fell through the safety net of Society

Jack Kerouac sleeps in the asphalt leading out of town Heading west into the great unknown laying out the legacy of the beat generation, After the great war and the disillusion that followed The so called military industrial complex

Allen Ginsburg taught at Berkley Where he jotted down his epic poem howl Storm clouds hovered on the horizon The mass protests against economic and racial inequality Had reached the flash point of critical mass A skinny young poet from Duluth emerged The voice of the sixties was born