Saturday, January 15, 2022

Real Beat (For Ralph)

Known him longer than either one of us would care to admit.
Known him since time bled from its many cuts and no civil servant could cauterize the wounds.
We’re old dogs who have always understood that the sacrifice is eternally baked in.

It wasn’t the alcohol that killed Jack, but instead his aspirations to write the great American novel.
When he was labeled a Beat he knew that was a death sentence he’d never shake off.
We now look at the Beat Movement as quaint when nothing could be further from the truth.

Poets nowadays celebrate their non-compliance to the muse which is precisely why none of them write from inspiration and instead get lost in the ironweeds.
I’ve blown my horn from time to time and all it has gotten me is a crick in the neck and my own well-earned disrespect.
Ralph bellows from the rafters like a blown out Tarzan that has always known the jig was up.

It’s not about pointing fingers, but is instead about doing the actual work and turning one’s back on all the asinine accolades piled up and ready to be set ablaze.
We must accept we’re castaways, long exiled from a community of do-gooders who do nothing but pass judgement and massacre the innocent.
We’re old dogs that believe pomp and circumstance will get you five to ten in a mass grave of Dharma Bums that go pop in the American night.

Charles Cicirella

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