A "Beat Elegy"

by t. kilgore splake

quiet groups of old beatniks, ersatz dharma bums, continuously slumming in the tropics of "beatitude." lost in their opaque psychological interiors, reliving childhood hurts, petulant infantile angers over slights unrevenged,

junior-grade Kerouacs and Cassidys talking about the glorious "Road to Emmaus." yet each day their energies remain idled,

dull, humorless audience, deaf to new magic. a "risen moment." the young shaman- philosopher's call to follow me,

necessary reality of tavern, coffee house locale for silent regular musings, as if each morning like Scarlett's Tara, they can declare "it stands,"

continuous cerebral masturbation, never reaching orgasm, wisdom always stillborn.

timid victims resisting the risk of change, lost to the desires for comfort and convenience, pack, sleeping bag. notebooks, shack matches, pork and beans, the road still there, but for someone else.