"Howl" for Carl Solomon. |
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I saw the best minds
of my generation |
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destroyed by madness, |
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starving hysterical naked, |
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dragging themselves through
the negro streets at dawn |
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looking for an angry fix, |
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angel headed hipsters burning |
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for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo |
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in the machinery of night, |
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who poverty and tatters and |
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hollow eyed and high |
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sat up smoking in the supernatural
darkness of cold water flats |
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floating across the tops
of cities contemplating jazz! |
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Sometimes I feel in command
when I'm writing. |
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When I'm in the heat
of some truthful tears, yes. |
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Other times...
most of the time, not. |
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You know, just diddling around... |
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woodcarving, you know,
finding a pretty shape, |
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like most of my poetry. |
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There's only been a few times
when I've reached a state of... |
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complete control... |
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