New Poem: John D. Robinson

RESIDUE

I am the hacking opium

 cough of Marty Matz

and the elegance and 

mystery of Lamantia,

the natural voice 

conserving Snyder, 

I have the vision of Rimbaud

and the bollocks of Bukowski,

I have the steel nerve 

passions of Corso

and the beat swing of 

Kerouac, the

gentle swirling dreams

 of a raging Patchen,

 the vast windows 

of Frank Lima,

like the doors of 

Ray Bremser and

Bob Kaufman, are

 always open,

the grinning Gagaku 

 of Steve Richmond

 is forever

present, I hear the

 roaring mouse of

McClure and the

 weeping of scattered

Streets belonging 

to Jack Micheline,

I see William Wantling, 

he is high and

is looking for the 

next hit and 

follows me,

I hear Doug Draime

 raise hell and the

eternal alarm for us all,

 as I found

the bullet of Lew Welch,

 the buzzards

circled above, 

I feel

the inspirational 

strength

 of Di prima, 

Anne Waldman, 

Joanna Kyger and

Brenda Frazer and 

Caroline Cassidy,

Magda Cregg and 

many 

sisters rise in 

a literary beacon of

 majestic skies,

as Dan Propper counts

 down gloriously

and Charles Plymell

 radiates poetic

solidarity, as 

Douglas Blazek

 stares with

independence 

and revolution,

I know, 

I am poet.