BEATNIK: A Poetry Collection

the cabin

middle-aged men

with blood-red faces

and sky-high blood

pressure belt out the

oldies, hard and loud.

ghouls, specters of

a dead generation

linger like husks in

a seizure mob

on the floor.

they wiggle to the

rapid strum of the

electric guitar, tone

deaf and geriatric.

their ankles crack

as they hop up and

down, ignorant to

the fact that this

chapel of the blues

was built to inspire

their nostalgia.

quietly on the side

of a highway road,

their little shack

rumbles, containing

their desire to be

who they once were.

that time is

gone and their

song is ending.

now they fizzle like

inflatable dummies

in front of car lots,

hoping that in their

loose shake they can

rediscover, relive, or

rejoin the past.

give up.

the future

is now.