Thinking
of Jasmine While Reading Bukowski
What
happened to the young poets,
those
wild eyed freshly glazed double walled pottery vessels
of
unmitigated passion and radical thought,
The
last vestiges of ardor to a porcelain culture
that
has grown ‘comfortably numb’.
Have
they all turned to “slam”?
Have
they grown so desperate for fortune and fame
that
they have forgotten the pre requisite heat,
or
the patience of the granulated press,
the
shoulders upon which they stand.
Such
things have no place in pop culture.
What
happened to the young poets?
The
ones that sit to the back of the cafe, brooding over
Neruda,
or Baraka, yearning to transcribe a classical tone
into
a modern litany of vigor and zeal.
What
happened to the young poets?
Have
they traded their lotus blossoms and Kerouac outings
for
a shot at an idol celeb? Cashed in their Langston
and
Bronte for a platinum mixtape and an itunes jingle?
Are
they gone from us forever,
Or
are they just
Deferred
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