The Wake

I saw the best minds of my generation ignore themselves, starving raving saccharin,
Dragging themselves into disheveled sheets at dawn looking for an angry burger,
Slickhaired infants chilling for the latest heavenly hookup to the dazey dynamo in the machinery of nightlife,
Who credit carded and ends oriented and silk striped and down with sat up slouching in the supernatural glow of neonatal niches floating past Starbucks contemplating static,
Who bared their brands to Idol under the El and never saw Risperdalized angels wandering on hospital floors disarrayed,
Who passed through universities with aviator-dressed eyes hallucinating glass boots and Joyce-light tragedy among the scholars of scrip,
Who were admitted to the academies for gilt and publishing obscene assumptions on the windows of the skull,
Who jaunted in laidback rooms in tight jeans, burning their books in effigy and listening to their commercials with music,
Who got hung out to dry in their smooth visage returning through Orange County with a bottle of bullets for passunder,
Who spit fire in hotels called friendship and pissed out the heat, dearth, or purgatoried their soles night after night
With Dr. Scholl’s, with webbed minds, with walking nightmares, miralax and coke and blueballs,
Comparable pined streaks of muttering cud and butterflies wake in the stomach
Leaping toward polls of This Land Is My Land, illuminating lightly mountainous murals of Maidanik in Montana,
Who acted under the idea of freedom like all rational beings and saw no evil as they stared blindly into the brilliance of ten thousand suns,
Who apparated history among radioactive dreams that evinced electromagneticosis as a likely diagnosis,
Who drifted rapidly from memory to madness in the passive and active voice all the same,
Who stumbled upon tragic hipness only to amp up an ambiance called disdain,
Who turned slightly looking not quite into my eyes as I thought throw me a bone or leave me alone as they thought let me by and I might not cry,
Who lost touch with the audience the moment they took their seats and quantum structures wrote a Book of Splendor on slated pleats,
Who brokered losing touch for human contact that never called but charged by the minute
and what I want to know is
How do you like your blueeyed boy now that he’s writing bum verse?