I used to lay out on the lawn,
feeling the prick off the sheared-off grass on my feet that stuck out
beyond the edge of my blanket,
reading Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs,
cover propped up so others could see what I was reading,
arms going numb from the effort.
I read their works with a mixture of
serious engagement and bored amusement.
I liked their honesty,
but it’s masked,
you can’t take them at face value;
their confessions are staged;
they are themselves an art.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s