beatnik rebirth

under the bohemian patronage
of the full morning moon,
rising from unseen ether
between the soaring skyscraper legs
of the mother cosmopolita,
we emerge in masses
from the subway orifice
twisted and inspired
bright and bent
like Picasso stick people,
sad and wiser
good and bad
muttering or mad,
artistic or antic,
melancholic or in love,
perserverant and deviant,
renewed but naked
like William Carlos William's contagious undergrowth
profoundly changed and gripping down
in the first frosty light of Spring...
too conflicted to write
too weary self-conscious to sing,
past winter lives
lingering like a staticky radio song
reverberating through the new world
like the dying ember ring
of a long ago rung gong...
soon to be gone
and our spirits moved on