There was a time when there was no beat,
just anticipatiion of beat.
I have seen evidence of this, fossilized footsteps imprinted
by Burroughs, Ginsberg, Kerouac, others . . .
not in the subways of New York City, not on the pavement
of San Francisco, not in intellectual refuges
of New Jersey
but in Texas, near New Waverly, on high ground above
where Peach Creek swings south towards the Gulf
of Mexico
a zany band of pranksters gathered, led by Father Burroughs
&nbp; whose real son, Burroughs Jr., was born in a dilapidated
hospital in Conroe, where I once paid taxes
{Burroughs Jr. predestined to die a Junkies' death died a junkies' death}
back from digression, pranksters gathered to plant, nuture & harvest
marijuana
for export to New York City, also collected words in a communal pot,
simmered words in their own handwriting at a wobbly kitchen table,
bastard words born into bastard sentences
beating on the drums within our wars
a new seedling among the Piney Woods, born blessed & doomed
to leave home & roam
before consumption from addiction
before New Orleans
before botched William Tell in Mexico City
before the obscenity trial
(they won our constitutional freedom of expression)
there was New Waverly, stark & plain, awkward & lovely, frail & bold,
forgotten until beat nation beats the drum.