Slam Granny  
  (Second thoughts on the death of  Allen Ginsberg) 
 
  Other poems:

Fanny

Edge
 
Me and Gladys are On the Road,
again.
WE ARE THE BEST MINDS
of the polypantsuit generation
'specially when our '67 Rec. RECreational Vehicle is in Jack's shop
with the reprint of the 1954 SNAP-ON girlie calendar still up.
the sight of which is enough to make us get our hair permed twice
plus a MANicure,
but only if Freddie Crugar is still in business.
Don't you wish YOU could hang up by the tail
on your mechanics wall?
And leap off  just when he's under a Peterbuilt tweaking the hydraulics?
Roll him out from under on his dolly
and have at it
correcting his timing with your sock it wrench
the way you wished you coulda done when you
POSED FOR THAT CALENDAR IN THE FIRST PLACE
for every Billy Bob with a six pack and a pickup and all of your girlfriends' Dads,
and even Dr. Wilcox, (but only for exams), the janitor...
over and over from the time you walked home from Junior High (whew!)
and before that as you find out later?

It was then I learned ridin' dick was the only road to get somewhere
a somewhere that never came but only said it did when you got hitched
to Mr. Strong Silent Type to keep from being an Old Made (in the shade),
if you know what I mean
But after he finally died gurgling in his Old Bombay and gagging on  college words,
me and  Gladys finally get in the driver's seat, downshift,
and take over his map, alright.
We figure, there's nothing lovlier than satisfying
a man's secret fantasy about being raped by old ladies
who come in to have their tires balanced.
And hey! Just like Kerouak and Cassidy on their road
we are also retired.
Thing is we ain't beat yet.

If you recall yer history Kerouak was called Daddy 0 of the Beats.
Maybe that was Ginsberg. They're all the same in the dark.
Whatever... Then, I was a barefoot art student
with Marilyn Monroe eyeliner
when we, lets say, „took inš their Sunday night poetry rants....
The night Ferlinghetti delivered his unforgettable piece
about a Girl-With-Cement-Vagina
 WE SAW THE FUTURE OF POETRY!
It was a pure and lusty vision!
One million calendar gals
on the attack
hollerin' and whoopin their cement vaginas up side the head
that mean streets poetry guy all-the-way-to-the-publisher,
 pieces-of-square-pie-for-Beat philosophy dogmadoo
with  Zen asides and manly argots, a little pussy on the side and Jack in the vestibule.
Gettin' on to this glorious future as we speak, Gladys,
let's  take a page from the beats and  rive past Diane DiPrima,
and the „gaggleš of the female poets, like Lenore Kandel...
Overtake Stenheim on the straightaway...
These treads never lost bite;
It's time for the half century lube.
This road ain't just for THE boys no more.
It's calendar time again and we'rrrrrrrrrrreeeee
OFF THE WALL!

 
 
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