Over the weekend I read Allen Ginsberg's "classic" book of poetry: Howl. The Forword, written by William Carlos Williams (he of the red wheelbarrow glazed with rain) mentions that, when he knew Ginsberg, he was one disturbed human-being. I first read Howl in college, but the place and time were a bit before me (1955) and I'm not sure that "Howl" resonates with me as it would with older Baby Boomers.
Still, though Allen Ginsberg saw the "best minds of his generation destroyed . . . ." I've seen my share of destruction, too. But having emerged during the 1970s instead of the 1950s, my sense of destruction is a bit different:
Todd's Howl
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Dunkin' Donuts
Old men sitting in truck stops eating day old hash
Women with one tooth grinning over a plate of Sloppy Joes
Teenagers necking in the booth next to the pinball machine
Josey and the Pussycats on TV
Josey and the Pussycats on TV
And everyone grooving on Friday night football games.
Yes, and Sonny and Cher, too, and let's not forget
Flip Wilson, or Carol Burnett, or Jimmie on Goodtimes.
Shows like this that defined my generation
And warped our minds and made me what I am today
Just another guy who can hum the theme to Gilligan's Island.
America, I'm calling you up on charges of neglect,
Mothers who left their teenage sons, like me,
To rot in front of Sanford and Son, My Three Sons,
And that other show that featured Brian Keith
As a slovenly father who desperately needed a good woman to love.
America, I'm still looking for Mayberry,
For your huddled masses yearing to break free from Wal-Mart
(Which used to be K-Mart before the flashing blue light turned red).
America, I'm putting my middle-aged shoulder to the wheel
And turning on the coffee pot one last time.
Tonight, it's SpongeBob and Three and a Half Men.
Holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy. And amen.
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