Where the hell is Allen?

Where the hell has Ginsberg gone?
These people need a good hard look at themselves.
Talk of finance seems to permeate the air
and yet the arts were impoverished long ago;
reduced to weekend enthusiasts or the wealthy eccentric.
Where are the coffee houses broadcasting prose;
the parks teeming with free people in revolt.
More nights lost to sleep, coffee turned cold.
Why are the midnight diners lost to sundry drunkards
and the streets vacant save the homeless
and the mindless corporate drone.
It seems the white picket fence has returned
and we are all to be crucified upon it.

 

Reviews

[Tracie Skarbo]

It seems the white picket fence has returned
and we are all to be crucified upon it.

wow...this says it all doesn't it? You definitely do not want to be put in a box. You don't want boundries to dry up your creative angst. Excellent job!

[W.k.kortas]

The smart-a*s answer is that he went to Bloomingdale's to read his poetry toward the end, but that constitutes being a wise-a*s for its own sake. The piece laments the loss of the generation of the Merry Pranksters, and (paradoxically, perhaps) it does so with the wistfulness you would find in more classical, "mainstream" work--which I don't see as a bad thing at all. The final two lines are pitch-perfect. This is very strong work.