A room with no view,
is now what I’m used to.
If you don’t believe me,
look and I’ll show you.
Ten feet squared,
no john and no shower.
Someone knocked me,
from my golden tower.
I’m back on my feet now,
and fighting resistance.
Good thing that I’m full,
of endless persistence.
The society occupies the second floor,
the scents followed me up to the entrance.
The stairs below lead to the front door,
the woman at the desk full of kind pretense.
Fanatical about manners you never ask for more,
you have my permission to do your best friend.
The someone who’s there to kill you isn’t a total boor,
apologies offered graciously never meant to offend.
I’ll be with you very shortly in the next waiting area,
invite me to make myself comfortable then return.
Just the right age, slim, fit and dressed with hysteria,
casual drop-dead elegance let grandmothers burn.
Take your time quickly of course there’s no rush made,
it would not serve the purpose to say so.
Laying is like business stock in the detective trade,
manners will get you much farther than go.
I knew perfectly well that with immediate social reasons,
that would come with flipping and demanding instant information.
The pretext of purity for membership shouldn’t rush seasons,
the topic of the day is how you might pick up more lasting elation.
By listening patiently to whatever is being said,
you’re never really lying and always think it through.
It would be cooler to be part of your club instead,
horrible and very shocking is what they say about you.
Genders and articles there’s no such thing as correct,
as well as with the right order to speak more frequently.
People love language that scores immediate respect,
tell me your price of membership then ask about my frequency.
Bend over the desk as innocently as possible,
give us a moment to notice your perfectly cut hair.
Prospects of horizontal socializing are delightful,
pleasure combined with excursion will take you there.
Words can be translated as loss or pity the martyr,
mourning in a way that’s telling the emotional sounds.
Give me your full attention and make things harder,
make sure I have the right verbs tenses and pronouns.
Dead beat poets and people with red notebooks and pens,
a discerning eye it’s agreed is a beautiful work of perception.
Allow yourself the pleasure of looking at each others sins,
write down something that’s like a positively genuine conception.
Transmogrified from a short story by P. Segal
I have no plans tonight because for me,
everyday is Halloween without the fun start,
we’re always looked at as freaks anyway,
why dress up when i can just be us and play my part.
Mile-high quality costumes with black lace and staff,
revealing your inner super-star hero whore,
the costumes you like the best and urge your laugh,
are the ones you wish too be and or galore.
Pitchforks up garderbelz with crotch and cleavage revealing,
humanity wakes up once a year to party and see each others inner-self,
shiny black capes and revealing masks enhancing the mystery of being unseeing,
I don’t stand in line or take kindly to fools so i’d rather be writing the next poem for the shelf.
I’m writing another poem while all alone sitting,
in the poetry room at City Lights.
I sit for an hour or more reading and writing,
on weekends and or weekday nights.
I gave up on love a long time ago,
there is no more left and or ego.
Until someone appears to be my amigo,
I wear the mask of silence where ever I go.
The confluence of influence manifests with the moment,
in something sometimes called perfect time.
The very best way to be your own monument,
is worship each other with words that rhyme.
Dear Mr. Ferlinghetti,
or would you prefer to be addressed,
as your majesty?
The poetry capital of the world is really a kingdom with invisible gates of many dismissive decisions,
in our shared hilltop neighborhood being an unknown poet comes with the aura of shame and disgrace,
anyone with a Mac and a few hundred dollars can do the same thing without your blessings or reasons,
printing only 12 books a year doesn’t a publisher make and please read me out once before hitting erase,
Everything done in North Beach comes with a fight because most of your subjects are racing quickly,
the City Lights beam could illuminate the world and only publishes cool-lucky subjects about once monthly,
seeking their fair share of slim recognition from a court that only seems to meet a few times a yearly,
you seem more than satisfied being the cool-hipster-king-of-the-beach with everything being driven politically.
Look all around our North Beach neighborhood to experience the real current of a Beat legacy,
our brothers and sisters are peddling their loose pages of poetry for pennies in the streets,
hang out in front of Specks for a night of smoking and drinking if you don’t believe me,
while the lighthouse of poetry just across the street seemingly richly silently sleeps.
Has it been so long since you published ‘Howl’ that you’ve forgotten what it is howling about so loudly ??
the poets here have met their demise because they came looking for someplace to be heard and belong,
finding a fife-dome instead while the incoming treasure is being used to build a monument to poetic hypocrisy,
unless you’ve made it in some other cool-hipster-writing-club the line for this one is more than decades long.
Leave your backpack at the door and all hope of engagement with it while taking a card instead and go,
you’re really not what we’re looking for they seem to like to say and it’s not very good or anywhere near,
rhyming is annoying as is everything else and you’re not already cool with packaging and wrapping just so,
poets from all over the world come here seeking their dreams of acceptance and find waiting a nightmare.
Roy screams at everyone on the streets because the poet and painter inside has nowhere else to go,
the North Beach kingdom publishing gates closed down his mind and will to write or paint many years ago,
Elvis C. tapes his prose to the walkways and though he’s a drunken thieving lier his work has pretty good looks,
the list is endless and can be viewed at the hotels filled with starving mad poets listed in their guest books.
Many of the most talented subjects in your kingdom are just one step away from begging or dying,
we only live once and you made yours so if you ask me for my worthless opinion as fellow poetic whores,
we the poets of North Beach became this way while living in the silent shadow of a long distance howling,
re-read and embrace your past and let go of the reigns while dissolving your publishing kingdom doors.
Living here has made me a poet mostly against my will and i may be truly bad or mad for thinking like this,
as it stands now the City Lights club is not one in which i wish to belong nor is it likely i’ll be invited this way,
there should be a wall of the empire store for ALL neighborhood writers and poets separated from the abyss,
because that’s what all of our visiting hipster-thinker and readers have come here looking for anyway.
I’ve never had a muse like this before,
it feels quite nice I must admit.
Feeling inspired to write the words,
because there you swimingly sit.
You are flying here soon to see me,
because of this I’m feeling distraught.
I’m ashamed of my life or lack there of,
and what I have and haven’t even got.
I wonder what it is you think of me,
to warrant such an undeserved visit.
I can’t imagine meaning that much,
to someone and being well worth it.
The life I lead is void of one another,
and spent alone 4 days of four.
I’ve never been in this much pain,
except for yesterday and the days before.
When I dream of what you’ll expect,
it conjures up all my darkest fears.
It seems as if I have nothing to offer,
but all night talks with eyes full of tears.
There is no fun kind of sin left,
alone and locked behind the black door.
There once was a time with things,
but that time is no longer more.
It’s been years since I’ve owned a bed,
or wanted one to make and share.
The thought of ever having another,
is way to much to want or dare.
The daily grinding moments of pain,
that exists between the ticks and tocks.
Sometimes I feel as if they’ll stop,
whenever I look directly at the clocks.
I’m really just a dead beat poet,
rejected by all of my peers.
On the surface everyone smiles,
but underneath are only jeers.
I’m the one that everyone,
likes to know from a distant afar.
Don’t get too close they all say,
as they keep their closed minds ajar.
My existence is rather something,
I wouldn’t call it a livable life.
It’s more like a bad joke or add,
selling struggle and constant strife.
Every breath I begrudgingly take,
is full of hopeless and wanton dread.
The countdown has started from here,
when it stops one of me will be dead.
Lifelong thoughts are bound in multiverse,
a book written by hand and ready to expand,
colliding quanta without a hadron to transverse,
my theory of 13 dimensions for you to understand.
Everything is part of a system and works in some way together,
all interlocking in an aetherspher with relative butterfly effecting,
possibly maybe someday we could write part of it together,
two minds idea creating and in between poetically mating.
This is what brought me to be part of the continuum,
could there really be others who think this warped way maybe ?
my needing is for hot intensive & instead got a cold medium,
what my presence causes is hostility and more bad slavery.
Flirting with someone from reality is all very new to me,
it’s been so long since someone has listened to my song alone,
broken insides have burned down as well and striving to again see,
attacked just because wherever i go and have learned to think at home.
Despite my appearance i am really quite weak and not very good at doing stuff,
if there is any losing to do it has my name all over it covered in others druel,
leisurely impossible every moment of my existence is excruciatingly rough,
i really just want to be the worst of the best and join part of a school.
My pockets are empty as well as my soul with everyone demanding more,
there is no place to turn or anything to goal because all i do is wrong,
there is nothing left to pick but scabs so i hide behind my thick black door,
there’s nothing more avoidable than a broken dead beat poet with no song.
The damage i have endured is very real and ongoing right now,
my leaky life boat has been drifting in open water and manned,
mating with your mind has begun the long healing vow,
liking the real behind me is something i can’t understand.
What you think of me can’t be correct,
an intriguing mystery maybe nice to explore,
my words may dazzle but i am really a big wreck,
your words bring me hope i’m not something to abhor.
dead beat poet 