So I’ve had whooping cough and have pretty much been sleeping for the last several days. Whatever. Feeling better today and instead of just rambling, I’ve decided to work on a poem that I started probably about a year ago. It’s, well, a version of Howl by Allen Ginsberg written for my generation. It’s derivative and probably would never stand up against the original, but it means something to me, so I’m going to keep working on it. Right now, I’m going to post what I’d already had done and when I decide to stop working on it for today, I’ll make a new post with what I wrote today.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
moonlight, grasping hysterical lonely,
pushing themselves through the half-lit streets at night
trying to catch the light,
brokensoul poets sobbing for some lost heavenly
connection to the distant illumination of the
quilted night,
who under-employed and uniformed and wind-chilled and sober sat
up smoking on the porches or stoops of
cheap apartments drifting up toward the sky
before going to work,
who bared their brains to school under florescents and
saw literary giants trapesing through lib-
rary shelves illuminated,
who passed through community colleges with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Oxford and Plathian tragedy
among the armies of scholars,
who were lauded by the academies for papers &
publishing dreary odes in the school’s subset of the
local paper,
who shivered in unheated rooms in blankets, burn-
ing their money in inefficient heaters and listening
to the high wind through the wall,
who got busted in their public indecency fingering some
girl or guy in the bushes by the library,
who ate their shoes in winter or drank their book fund in
summer time, ruin, or distilled their
blood night after night
with starlight, with Riddlin, with anxiety nightmares, al-
cohol and papers and endless reading,
observationsandrealizations 
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