Woof

For Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by liberalism,
well-fed hysterical fashionably clothed,
who bicycled themselves through college campuses at noonish
screaming full-throated in adopted indigenous tongues for government grants
to teach the homeless how to grow organic granola in public spaces,
who befriended insects,
who taught red ants and black ants the sublimity of coexistence,
who videotaped each other waving rainbow flags, intentionally ironically waving anarchy flags, waving United Nations flags, declaring themselves flagless,
who were bound for Boulder, bound for Berkley, bound for Barcelona with a backpack packed with smack and dream-catchers,
who boarded Greyhounds to Nirvana then abandoned the buses at the whiff of spies,
who hitchhiked to the houses of gender-neutral relatives who seem pretty chill,
who wandered parks pick-pocketing in righteousness, baring their bones to the Sacred Mother Earth and Ancient Father Sky, burning music of the Grateful Dead, burning music of a minister's wayward daughter, burning bootleg underground playlists of the Mighty Lemonberry Squad’s thirteen B-side harpsichord versions of their # 67 hit “ghosts of ghosts are the only ones living,” fabricating certificates of authenticity to accompany the sardonic marketing of comic books that contain no comics and are not books,
who are twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings and something-somethings avoiding the creation of nuclear families, averting responsibility, chanting “sustainability” chanting “diversity” chanting “social justice,” chanting “New Urbanism,” with careful lips, spinning eyeballs, volunteering at abortion clinics between neo-carnival rallies expressing solidarity with cultural prisoners such as Chaz,
dropping flower-bombs on capitol cities, dropping spray-painted bombs of love on church doorsteps, performing the installations of art installations of constellations of art installations that perform, installing tele-micro-phonic software into soft wares i.e. second-hand pillows that smoke, drawing back the Curtain of Suburbia and peeking into the Inner Machinery of the Future-Minded Utopian Ideals, returning to the classroom, returning to the coffee-houses, returning to the hostels at dusk with mouthfuls of Promised Land Lore,
who got no job and wanted no job,
who collected union dues and municipal budget misallocations for their non-profit stimulus-subsidized commune start-up, the poster-child of shovel-ready investments into green jobs for clean energy dynamos that prepare children of low-income families for a lifetime of techno-savvy success in the brave new economy
who studied postcolonialism postcolonialism postcolonialism
who scrawled “Resurrect the proletarians of aboriginal architecture!” in dropout textbook marginalia thus fulfilling a global diversity requirement,
who slept in the graveyard of Western Civilization to summon the spirits of dead white men to kill them again,
who vacationed in mechanical forests to de-stress,
who roamed the Desert of New Thought Indian Reservation for forty days and forty nights, smoking peyote with the final few Indians who waged war on all pale-faced invaders,
who vacationed with drugs,
who vacationed again with more drugs,
who vacationed with the only guy left with a car,
who hired Craigslist philosophers to scream Equality into the halls of Congress,
who assembled a team of interior decorators slash meditation gurus to levitate and treat their windows with the color of hoary-headed infatuation
who knocked door-to-door for Barack Obama,
and plan to work for Obama again,
I have a message for you, plucked from the tree of Common Sense:
Become a conservative. Vote Republican.