My 11th grade English teacher got us all interested (maybe only me) in poetry by telling us that Howl had been banned for obscenity before rolling it out for us read, unabridged.
I thanked him with a fire of desire and a longing for meaning in the shallow halls of my teenage despair.
I became his student and found myself watchful of his moves across the street through a classroom window smoking off campus to appease even his masters.
Who was I to call into question his hypocrisy when I spent my time hoping to be liked when I still hated myself?
I drank from his well of knowledge like a whore gulps for money all the while hoping that my pornographic knowledge would set me free.
Instead I accumulated a mental sickness that kept me riveted to the broken lives of so many hipsters whose music would lull me to sleep and allow them to steal my change.
Alas, I came and aimed for a better life and I found it with the help of Peyotyl my god with the cramps in my stom-ache I held my hands to the floor and felt my connection and sang the praise of Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, and Kerouac...help me Jack.
And then I decided that my shit ran too long so I gave up. I did read the "Portable Beat Reader" on the recommendation that teacher though and I loved Peyote Poem by Michael McClure and many others. So there is that.
