wrong number, please try again

Recently, people have been mistaking me for an out-of-place hippie. While I have a certain quixotic appreciation for the hippies (especially the music that came from that era), their hypocrisy is rather off-putting. Hippie-dom was about free love, sexual revolution, peace and drugs, all the sinful stuff our parents will never admit to trying. And that’s just what I mean. The hippies died out because they gave up, man. They grew up and got jobs making spreadsheets instead of making love. Now, some of the true hippies are still living out there on the communes, and to them I say, rock on. Because I fucking respect that. If you’ve got a message, fucking follow it. Don’t just show up for the music and weed and leave when it gets boring, or you’re tired.

But I’m not trying to bash on the hippies here. What I really meant to say is, I’m not a hippie, I’m a beatnik. They’ve got similar values, and some of the beatniks that lived to see the 60s transitioned into being hippies themselves. But the main difference here, and in me, is that the beatniks actually did something. It was poetry, man. They lived the fucking rhyme and the beat in the syllables of the mind. They loved with the passion of wordplay and the freedom of free-verse. They heard jazz and knew, that that was fucking it, man. Jazz is the music that’ll change everything. It changed them. Beatniks were intellectuals who broke out of the mundane to live, and to write, and to feel. We live, we breathe, we eat, we shit, we fuck, because we are human. And isn’t that, just that, being human, the most poetic thing there is? There’s poetry everywhere we go, every car crash we see, in every scream we hear, in all the shit we smell, in the ground that bruises, in every cut that bleeds, in all the cigarettes we smoke, in every fuck we forget, but it’s all about living. I just love the fucking beatniks, man.


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