Zoe the Beatnik
I was thinking, if I weren’t who I am, who would I like to be? What
popped into my head was, I would be a beat generation poet.
You know, like Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti. (Isn’t Ferlinghetti a really cool name?)
Why? Well, back in the 50’s most everyone was still pretty naive, there
wasn’t any AIDS or HIV, good ol' Ike was the prez, and Elvis was the king.
Life was pretty simple then.
I’d live in San Francisco, wear a long, black coat and a beret, listen to jazz, drink espresso, and smoke Gauloises. Cigarettes would be OK because nobody back then knew they caused cancer. I’d recite my poetry to adoring crowds in smoky bars and say stuff like "I’m hep," "it’s cool," and "let’s haul ass." I think "haul ass" has a nice ring to it. I’d read Sartre and Camus. (Kierkegaard would be too tough to read.)
I wrote a poem as if I lived back then. Imagine bongos being played in the background and a curious crowd gathering around me in anticipation. Here goes:
The secret is not out,
nor would anyone want it to be, save a few.
All roads end somewhere; maybe they will end somewhere the same.
What has happened here?
When I try to understand, I’m told I already know.
Reality is self evident, is it not? Or am I missing something?
Oh well, so it goes. So it is or is it?
And as I ponder these things, the smell of the alley calls to me.
It is a disease natural to man to believe he possesses the truth
~ Blaise Pascal