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Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
Channeling Kerouac

Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere

Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left!  Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!

Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
Channeling Kerouac

Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Non-conformity, anything goes
Kerouac-Ginsburg-Burroughs

Shot to pieces, picking skin
Experiment with ******
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin

Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
Channeling Kerouac
7/15/2019 - Poetry form: Rhyme - "The Beat Generation was a literary movement started by a group of authors whose work explored and influenced American culture and politics in the post-war era. The bulk of their work was published and popularized throughout the 1950s. The central elements of Beat culture are the rejection of standard narrative values, making a spiritual quest, the exploration of American and Eastern religions, the rejection of materialism, explicit portrayals of the human condition and experimentation with drugs...In the 1960s, elements of the expanding Beat movement were incorporated into the hippie and larger counterculture movements." (Wikipedia: Beat Generation) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
L Barbera Jul 3
Relaxation
nothing shy of a superpower.
In a world of distractions
it's hard to stay strong.
To find real stillness and
peace in the moments between
all the happening.

These are the moments that count,
That i'll remember in the end.
The times Thoreau sought after at walden,
Kerouac at Big Sur.
The times I seek now
that keep the fire in me burning.
Making me believe that life
really is the gift
I once thought
it was
Kon Grin Jul 2018
ive seen the world all people same
we love we fear, deprived, insane
absolute mass and no division for the HQ supervision
we are Trialed in side by solicitude at night
blindfolded OF!
superiority of those that are biting in our nose
medicating under-eighteen that appear so differently
and thus don't reap the boredom we are destined to live through
im sorry that I'm different
and I'm sorry that I speak
for the nation of the flowers
all fragile but not weak
A call out to generation X
BB Tyler Jul 2018
river trail;
a breeze in every tributary
bend

river trail;
a breeze
(in every tributary bend)
july hiking after a dip,
each breeze is welcomed.
the repetition is intentional.
my grandfather said to me
"haiku is meant to be read twice"

experimenting with the impact of grammar and punctuation
on reading
Jo Barber Apr 2018
I'll never be happier
than when I'm on the road.

A bit like Kerouac,
not trying to run away.
Just want to be free
like the river.
The mere thought makes me shiver.
Not knowing.
That's the rush.
Where will I sleep tonight?
Where will I go tomorrow?
It's anyone's guess,
and I like it that way.

I'm not running from you,
I'm running from me,
to a better version of myself.
You don't need to get it,
just accept it.

Wind in my hair,
smoke in my hand,
but no longer over my eyes.
These highs
don't go any higher.

Don't agonize over me,
just let me roam free.
It's where I'm meant to be,
can't you see?
Antino Art Apr 2018
Let's talk about this jazz club
that lives in my cellphone
in 1950 something with Chet Baker
back from the dead.
Let's toast to random notes taking flight
into the city in the middle of nothing nights we've known or been familiar with.
Let's shake hands cordially with the unfamiliar as in "deal", or "peace be with you" as if in church, tipping hats at that stranger passing by at the crosswalk some late evening in spring alongside dandelions sprouting forth from the pavement. Let's read between breaks of beats Kerouac must have hit in 1950 something San Francisco in yelps into the moonlit stages of the balcony of his boxcar boxcar boxcar gone by in a mad blur with whatever graffiti'd message of hope it bore on its sides. Let's hitch into the unknowingly infinite by way of the pen's mighty point. Let's unlearn the way syllable by syllable and demolish languaged signs like hurricane force candor blowing down fact-ory made terms and political decorum as smoke from the pages of their corporate handbook joins the Chet Baker solo note pilgrmage into the holy skyline. Let's move side by side unspoken as those jazz notes he forgot to play. Let's fill in those blanks with uninformed confidence beyond our abilities and grasp the unsayable names of our dreams remmebered. Let's see in seconds passing like bums inebriated with the holy moments gone too soon. Let's talk about nothing but this sacred second at hand on this clock unseen pointing overhead to the face of the moon gone full and hungry for attention. Let this happen only now. Only then will we talk about where it's going.
Bryce Jan 2018
I stole you away from city lights
Yep held it in a brown balled paper bag
Drank in the words like liquor
I didn’t think anybody could see, really.
San Francisco stopped and got back on the treadmill
Made of silicon and now its gone

Beaded sweat of mind bleeds into the bay
I walked on the pier and teared up a little bit lip
The hills once covered in god are covered in another ones
I don’t know what to think of it at all

Grit the teeth against it and grind them to dust
Bite the tongue until it leaks sweet sanguine blood
I drink the wine and dine on the pain
And wish with all my dying heart to meet you again
But you are dead
Even the world you left is dead
And the minds of man are dying
Because they got way too mad of trying

Counter the counted counter-cultured counter-top
Endless sine of combating thought
I’ve walked to the golden-brown California hillcrop
And realized I stood on holy seasonal grassland genocide

With horror the minds withered United State Holodomor
Can I build a paper airplane to take away from here
In time you knew there was nothing here to fear
I cannot find it
Please help me find it

Your alley smells like **** and the taste of forlorn
Bay sits in hazy forever
The water still glitters god’s diamonds but it feels more like
A forgotten mound of coal
You cannot polish these timely souls
From bronze to something gold
If they do not want it

Men like you live to die
And we can pretend that there will be another to tell your place
But Socratic manners of speaking are banned
So too, will you be left on trial

The veil of night shines with roman jewels on an incandescent man-made interstate
I watch them sparkle in the receding mirror, all but the brightest remain
We built stars on our land and pretend they are god
And in a way they are
What poor representatives to those congresses of light
Impossibly far

So I must make do with the day we are born to
Speak words that mean worlds to you
And perhaps together we can reawake something
Disastrous after the soul, and open the I
nabi 나비 Dec 2017
to my friend who knows none of my writing
yet supports my passion with everything in your being
thank you for supporting me with everything in your soul
you haven't seen any piece that i have written
yet you believe that what i write is beauty
i appreciate you so much more than you percieve
and i hope one day that i am able to fully tell you how spectacular you are
i adore how kind and accepting you have shown yourself to be
i know we have only gotten close as of recently
but i am glad that i am able to know a person quite like yourself
our friendship reminds me of allen ginsberg and jack kerouac
speaking of honest emotions and desires
thank you for supporting the poetry you have yet to see
and thank you for supporting the honest me
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