“I saw the best minds . . . ”
And I don’t see them anymore.
Just the weak and weary march of brains
Burdened and enslaved.
The land starves and the people wither.
In this land, the Dead still dance,
Whether they have life or not.
The dirt grows deeper as we sink down this hole
Dug for us by generations past.
I sit and spend,
Spinning like the world under me.
This is how it works, right Mom?
And yet it doesn’t seem right.
Something seems off,
Maybe the broken light bulb,
Shattered in a fit of rage.
Maybe the damaged soul,
Silently crying out.
Maybe the fluttering one-winged butterfly,
Unable to take off.
Where are you, Allen Ginsberg?