smudged fingerprints
pressed against angel infused Light
so adorned the Beach Poets,
clutchin shabby penciled poetic pages
impregnatin rebirth
upside the BayCity
nighttime anytime they bopped
swingin through Fresno Street Green Tavern doors
enterin salty Chesterfield malt horizons,
drenched Jack London cherrywood Oakland whiskey counters,
miles from desolation North Cascade mountain peaks
relentlessly defying stagnation
these Beat Poets persisted,
enlightenin forgotten Greystone’s prism-haired madmen
other bardic visionaries,
for sanity had ignored these rhapsodic wanderers
whod stared down their horrific ethereal dreams,
whod chosen to not turn their backs from climaxes, conflicts, other ironies,
whod continually throttled their hip skepticism
wherever virgin blank pages spoonfused together
an Alcatraz Sea bouys constant
embracin nearby NorthBeach,
stretchin onward past secluded those Chinese Moon Oceans
that Jack had once prophesized
sonorous waves one day would revivify America
yet dauntless, mindful, forever contemporary
BeachPoetry perdures stalwartly,
spinnin unwindin directionless, germane,
oblivious and defiant to whatsoever offers an anchor:
whether inside/outside moldy brokebrick basement walls
despite clotheslined tightroped eternity backyards Amerika.