The stage is ablaze

with cigarette smoke.

Brass finger keys howl

from the sax man

tapping gold from Gabriel’s horn.

Alley cats sing the nine lives

to back room shadows where

Tom Waits breaks the words

from jumbled unwashed dreams

and Ginsberg works the beast

from his pen while Kerouac

reaches for starry nights over Lowell.


The stage fills the void. Everyone

is fed by the appetite of thought.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s