Repeatnik hosts seeking Restless Ghosts
by C Theodore Walker
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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On a walk in North Beach in SanFran, CA....one can sometimes hear the voices of those Beat authors speaking. We who repeat are Repeatniks; those in love with the dolce vita of living life and loving love in the patterns of those before us.
A North Beach walk filled with
troubled souls shuffling along near
those seeking wisdom that lay
deep in their firmament, yet are unwilling
to delve into themselves.
They dare, too scared to bet, afraid
of the lost cause of a losing gambit, only
to bring to bear a borne cause to inspire.
Mechanics circling Mecca and Medina by the Bay;
throngs brought up to the corner of Broadway and
Columbus to call upon patron saints
at which they will hurl stones and howl and bay.
St. Ginsberg to wash away their doubt,
St. Kerouac to find lightning in a bottle
St. Bukowski and St. Burrows come
to drink it all up in front of St. Orlofsky
who just came up to the row.
Huddled forward, pressing onward
repeatnik hosts looking to gain inspiration
at the bottom of a glass
on the toke of a bong
at the beck and call of a rusted
needle on a junkie’s syringe.
Bennie bopping, coffee dropping always
and again a train they are hopping, repeatniks
looking onward and shuffling forward, spout
from a fount of pure lust and yearn for a life
that remains in a dream of those angel-headed ones
who watch in repose.
Candy-eyed girls laugh loudly in the call of a
jackdaw looking for sparkling trinkets and passing by
horny executives, staring into neon titties
that pop and grind into imaginations of horny boys
caught staring at a Hustler magazine.
They want kicks, they want booze, they want
the American vision of Beat life that stands preserved
like a subject encapsulated in amber billions of
lives before, and the fascination of retreading an
old bald tire on a fully furnished car, set to go
on a road trip into parallel parapets assaulted
on multiple fronts of vivacious vicarious volume.
Laughing at stars like they were bums,
they pass by a man in Chinatown, sleeping
on the street in front of a mattress store
dreaming past the pain of cold ghosts
conjured up by these ironic caricatures
of iconic characters.
Om mani padme hum, they call into
the dark, snapping fingers popping gum
being absorbed into rushing currents of
Dadaist reconstruction pealing into the bells
that ring out the hours to Peter and Paul.
Siddhartha steps into view and listens to
Sartre and Nietzsche argue on virtue and
peril, as the youth start away like frightened
fawns running forward staring onward
into a clutch of immortality seeking postulates
who tap on bongos and rap blithely on
street corners adorned with flung literature.
A North Beach walk, filled with
repeatnik hosts in search of restless ghosts
looking to be set free into a wild night
filled with honey-glazed sensuality
and youthful indulgences.