For one thing, we don’t smoke anymore. And instead of hard drugs, we take psychotic medications and depressant. Alcohol, yes, but most of us has wised up. Even coffee is replaced by tea. Jack Hirschman and David Meltzer are still holding up the Beat, but then what? Poets are still poor, poetry reading is still free, thank God, at least in San Francisco.
The Beat Generation rose from the river of ever rushing poetic fervor. I don’t know who’ll be the next to go viral. The cosmos still holds the upper hand in this matter. But the gems are gleaming in cafes and salons, worthy of a much wider audience. Last night at the Red Poppy Art House in the Mission, Carlos Ramirez and Greg Pond traded Langston Hughes in songs and verse with an attendance of twelve. There was no photographer, no recorder. The magic of Hughes’ poems sung with child-like joy by a nimble seventy-something year old Carlos of great white beard ceased to exist after the reading, except for those who were there.
