MEET THE BEATS

By Brad Riesau

The Allen Poems
POEMS DEDICATED TO ALLEN GINSBERG AND THE BEATS


Halo
Gregory & Son, City Lights, 1978
Regenerate
Meeting Allen
Beat Beats
Barefoot Tidepool
Nightmare
Whom Love
Bomb Threat
Triple Feature



Special thanks to Robert Hunter for his lifetime of inspiration and encouragement. who first published HALO in his online archives at http://www.hunterarchive/files/Poetry/Halo.html

Thanks to Bill & Anita Thompson, Gary Soto, Chris Jung, Donald Risty, Gale Leach, Karl Keller, Dennis McNally, Nicky Galasso

Originally self-published in a limited edition in 2004. The poems listed above are (c) 1997-2004 Brad Riesau. They have been previously published in Brad's blog at myspace.com/v32unes.

The individual 10 poems indexed above form the collection MEET THE BEATS. You can read individual poems by clicking on the titles above or in the archive sidebar at right.

Gregory & Son, City Lights 1978

Staggering
clown-like
exaggerated doom walk
thru aisle of paperbacks
Beat up racks of verbiage and criticism
Poetic liquid generational ramble.
He crawled in upright,
towhead blond boy,
dirty faced,
on his shoulders.
Kid’s hands full of his greasy, grey streaked
fright wig mussed up head o’ hair
in tiny filthy fists
holding on for the ride
wide smile
dreamy.

“Hey LAAAAARRRRRY…
You know why I’m here...”
Patrons turn to stare eyes squinting in question
Wondering, “Who is this madman?”
Those in close, precarious proximity
keep faces buried in books
pretend to not notice
try not to provoke.
“LAAARRRRRRY, I know you’re UP there…”

Careening past oversize, trade bound books
on tables, on make-shift easels
Swallowing the Eastern Philosophy aisle whole
with one grand swoop
he throws his right arm to the ceiling
pointing
“LARRY. Come down from there. I’m coming up. LAAARRY.
Come on, man. You can’t fool me. We all can feel you, man...
NOW!” demanding.
“You need to hear me out…
NOW LARRY.”

Rising
a pink, bald sun over the edge of balcony rail
the voice precedes the forehead momentarily
followed by the peaceful eyes
staring right at the spot below from whence the cries come
“Come back later, Gregory
I’m busy.”

“Don’t Larry. You’re fuckin’ with me…”
“Bye Gregory. I’ll see you later.”
With that he was gone
but for the smell
of gasoline.


I ask the clerk, who has rung up infamously scandalous
beautifully inappropriate, disproportionately controversial
abundantly righteous literary fodder at this very counter for years,
“Was that who I think it was?”

“For the time being,” he whispered.

- for Pauli & Katie
and Gregory Corso (1930-2001)