Howl Festival

In the streets

Of the East Village

The people Howl,

Their minds fresh

With fervor

They prance naked,

Their bellies flopping

Like flapjacks

They lay in the grass

Encumbered with the sloth

Of youth – treasured alibi

In this side of paradise

They have replaced sand

With moss and dirt mounds
Towels with blankets

Palms with withered trunks

And thick branches

And I have joined

The tragic romance,

The aimless parade   

Of idealists

 I walk

With idle pace

Bare, braless –  

My breasts dangling

Like ripe mangos

Bearded poets –mouths that

Spatter syllables like pellets,

Rhymes like bombs

As coherent to us

As Morse code is for the blind

As it was for them 

Back then