Crazy Peace of Mind
We’ll talk and screech madly through the night
in heated arguments about the Witch doctors of Africa
the Hindus of India and Voodoo men of the West Indies.
We’ll howl through eons
whilst Charlie Mingus puts it down
and Luigi’s hot rod in his
Persian-rugged attic roars like a drunken mouse with
his head caught under the feet of Dali’s stilted elephants.
Why doesn’t the middle class put up?
because they’ve got their all holy standards warped!
They must dig the life of calm
quiet suburbia: until their tract-house orgies are bared.
But, we’ll howl, rant, scream
kick and pick up on frothing sounds — loud
cascading forth over Peyote rocks
and crashing into ourselves,
pierced with flats — sharps
and that crazy sound: off minor.
Read? — don’t play it high society isn’t so bad
it’s the tract-house and 20,000 — 60,000 class
that’s got middleclass values up to here and who
picture themselves as clairvoyant white knights
destined to save me, or us — they boil my blood.
Dean Moriarty roars into the Opus One at 3:30 a.m…
“Ron! how you been? Crazy!
Look Jack, we got a lookin’ all so clean
gig goin’ over Hunter’s Point
so let’s splee this one an’ make that!”
That cat Moriarty from the Doldrums is just about so crazy
as a man can be.
“Dean, I, Speedy, Linda, Sammi, Breeze, Yvette, Carlo
and many unknowns hold wild atheistic meetings
and we sit around and not pray
and drink we do, swear, blaspheme — etc.
because we have no god.”
This is what Jon Kreebson writes of himself.
Now who knows what howling times we have
in crazy grottos of the city
while Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti,
and Kerouac sit in the spot;
many crazy, unsuspecting poets know me in the place.
They put the aforementioned in with Chaucer
and his cohorts. Howl over pebbled craziness
with cascading jive marrying Peyote
in a wild explosion frescoed with intermingling
and crazy peace of mind.
Lateef wailing blue.
Photos: Main – Herb Greene