I'm still here. A poem I wrote, your thoughts?

Question

Evening San Fran nights are best spent in the streets stirring up trouble with
Happy Jack, are you a fool?—life proved my face to be
Spat upon—that’s a yes, friend. Joints joints marijuana kief joints
Traffic lights reflecting off madcap loonies and stoned
Enthusiasts in their suits and glass towers that rent open the tortured sky
With a metallic riiiip sreeech! Open to angels
And bare-headed smiling oriental garden loving wine tasting chinamen—
Morrison says we must die—what a prophet of Jonestown—
In car, watching city hills rolling past my window,
Feels like I’m miles high, watching the lights of the city roll upon
A canvas of my own mind’s painting—such thoughts surge unchecked
Through my innocent mind as Hank forces the wheel of poor
Aged ‘54 cadillac to squeal like unhappy lovers who couldn’t
Quite get the dime in the coin slot, moan, what a boring love scene,
In observing such playing out in my mind—“dear, we’ll try again in the morning”—“But
I’m drunk!”—“Well then do something other than grab me, I feel
So used”—“But I’m drunk!”—and so on, until Hank finishes his mad
Turn to turn the focus back to the conversation at hand,
Does Rimbaud compare to the complexities of the queer prose
Of Ginsberg, and Kerouac’s capture of the beat american rapture,
I’m sitting drunk in the back seat as Hank turns to me—“what say you,
Love?”—to which I drink my wine and smile belatedly,
I miss blonde haired lovers, Hank perceives such,
“Boy, have we gotta get you ****** by a mad woman!
You are unhappy, a night with a wild brunette will set you straight,
Look at her, standing solemn on the street, what about her?
No wine, boy, no wine.”
—and so on, until I’m sick and tired of listening to mad rants on the mysteries of
Sex and one night stands, I look forward to conversing with Cass
On the subject, perhaps drink and sleep, holding tight,
Promised I’d be faithful, and damn, just waiting—
Watching wine flowing down her dress as she quirks an eyebrow and
Asks “yes?” and cracks a smile to see my expression upon her body,
And back to backseat car ride, not sure where we are headed,
I had never been the one to care, just the one to smile and drink
And smoke to loosen up, to which I then open my soul
Gushing forth and banging the headseat and bursting out,
The world smiles and I laugh, Lucas moans to the pair of fancily adorned
Women on the corner, four way stop, luck dealing him a red light,
Groaning poetry about his journeys to lakes with lovers and red lips
To which the ladies laugh and continue on their way,
Suddenly the radio pushes out another tune,
“hate your next door neighbor,
But don’t forget to say grace”—to which I cry,
“Boys, we’re on the Eve of destruction driving in this mess of a tank,
Let me out!”—O, and poor happy me,
Wine bottle in hand, staggering out on the streets,
Searching for queens, finding wives,
Who are being happy indeed, I feel as in court, but is
Only my mess of a mind, red wine seeping creeping,
And I stumble into a corner, a hub of activity
Where I observe zen cats passing out on the streets and rocking down hillways
Thumbs in pockets an’ eyen’ the passerbys cold and hard,
Like mankind’s ***,
And to me they stop and share their wares and offer me a ride,
Humbly I stumble into a ’92 subaru white and speeding wildly through San Francisco
Parkways and beaches to churches and diners-cafeterias at midnight.
Humble college boy with cherubic expression and pool eyes with Visions of Cody
Hanging out jacket pocket smiles at me over my meal of beefy soup and
Hard-tack bread, tastes of garlic and vegetable oil—I’m not one to complain—especially
Over the time I rode six hours straight by Amtrak train from Sacramento to Hanford
For Thanksgiving holiday next to hard pimp
And drawing up knees to chin curled against window temple resting on churning rocking
Window watching the countryside melt along melding into towns rusting abandoned
Company windows and loading docks, overgrown yards and farmsteads—needless to say
The boy is a knowledgeable loon talking and in constant motion of combing
Hair back to smile and blink rapidly—muscle spasm?—and talks to me
About novels and classical tone clarity, beating thrumming his ink-stained
Fingertips against the grain of the rusting chipped table at which I sit and
Slurp soup, words coming up against me rising cascading and running clean
Out the other side—I seldom listen to anyone anymore.

Answer 1

Best Answer - Chosen by Asker

This is one of those poems that you print out and carry around in your pocket for a while to think about and enjoy. Great writing! You are starting to get scary good at writing poems.

Asker's Rating:

Asker's Comment:

Glad you liked it.

Answer 2

This peom is a little to long you got a rythme goign tho...

Answer 3

Im sorry but i think you need to break it up into more paragraphs or something so it doesn't look so daunting. sounds good though.

Answer 4

WOah dude, WAY too long,
but other than that, i think its really good :D

Answer 5

On a quick read, I think you're channeling Ginsberg...

It's a long one, but interesting so I'm going to have to give it a little time to digest.

Answer 6

i mean i liked it a lot....but it could have been a little easier on the eyes

Answer 7

I think this poem is absolutely stunning. Really. Your influences are clear, even if you hadn't mentioned them by name - Kerouac, Ginsberg - but this really is a beautiful piece. I don't think you should change a thing, just as I never think you should change a thing when you're working in a stream-of-consciousness way. The less editing the better. I'm going to read this again.

Answer 8

Where are you lost and will you return? Moments can stretch out like a blanket of fog, obscuring yesterdays and tomorrows without time NOW ever coming into play...but it's okay, it makes poetry.

Answer 9

I think it's fantastic and so real to the core and it makes me miss my taylor and eddy days in the good ole tenderloin dist' eating at original joes and then back to the warfield hotel.It's a crazy life but it's my life.Your poem was so surreal and it really describes the city of Big AL's and all the great things and smells.You have really made me home sick now..lol

Answer 10

Listen
to Hank....

Answer 11

My mistake - I thought this was the poetry section.

Answer 12

This is exactly what is wrong with the Beats. It is verbal diarrhea.

I took the liberty of fixing it for you. I know this has nothing to do with whatever nonsense you are talking about but since you have no interest in WRITING IT UP or in it being uncrappy enough to be read why should you care if I mangle the storyline, such as their is.

--------------------------------------…
In the car watching the city hills roll past
a canvas, in my madcap stoned out mind
of suits and towers that rent the tortured sky
a metallic riip screech, opened to the angels
and bare-headed oriental garden-loving, wine-tasting Chinamen.

Morrison says we must die—what a Jonestown prophet!
Happy Jack, you are a fool, San Fran spits on you;
a joint or joints, a kief, doobie; a spliff.
Rove the streets stirring up trouble
the ‘54 Cadillac's wheel squeals like an unhappy lover
I’m drunk!”—“Well then do something,” —“But I’m drunk,” I said.

Turn back to the conversation at hand,
Rimbaud compared to the Ginsberg?
The American rapture of Beat Kerouac
I drink my wine and smile belatedly,
I miss blond haired lovers, Hank responds:
“Boy, have we gotta get you fukced by a mad woman!
A night with a wild brunette will set you right.

Sex and one night stands, I'd rather talk to Cass
on the subject, perhaps drink and sleep, holding tight,
Promised I’d be faithful, and damn, just waiting—
Wine flowing down her dress as she quirks an eyebrow,
back to the car ride, unsure where we're headed.
Never been the one to care, just smile and drink
Smoke loosens my soul, banging the head rest and bursting
The world smiles and I laugh, and watch the city lights.

Lucas moans to a pair of fancy women on the corner
Four way stop, luck dealing him a red light,
Groaning about lakes, lovers, and red lips
They laugh themselves away. Radio pushes another tune,
“Hate thy next door neighbor, and don’t forget to say grace”
—to which I cry,
We’re on the Eve of destruction driving in this mess around
“Let me out!”—O, and poor happy me,
Wine bottle in hand, I stagger into the street.

Seeping, creeping my mess of mind
red wine, eye'n passersby, like humanities arrsse.
Strangers stop and share their wares with me,
offer me a ride, I humble stumble into a wildly speeding
'92 Subaru past parkways beaches churches diner-cafes
A cherubic college boy with chlorine eyes
smiles at me over beefy soup and hard tack bread
it all tastes of garlic and vegetable oil — I'll not complain.
Six hours on Amtrak, Sacramento to Hanford,
fingertips nub the grain of a chipped table
but I am not listening anymore.

Answer 13

Much too long. Remember: the shorter, the more to the point, the better.