a night
at a bar on Beacon St. Boston
with John Wieners . . .
Still lamenting the loss
Of a surreal drug culture
Where his not-too-well-groomed-reputation
At least not as well coiffed and planned
As nights of ordinary coke and vodkas
With Ginsberg Ferlinghetti and other 'Beats'
While words were the past never quite catching
Up to him the poet John Wieners
Celebrity fizzled out looking spent
Like a jejune pink sloe-gin that has lost zip
Sits untouched here in this bar
Full of unknown thoughts
The lights lowered to escape bright knowing
Mumbling about Beaudelaire and Boston College
Nights full trying to cadge another free beer
Casually assessing the local talent
His middle-aged belly sweating wishes
Of Hotel Wentley boys
As the poet John Wieners begins to speak
of Magda Gabor you know the other sister
From movie classics such as Mars Needs Men
And he rambles on about his mother
To no one in particular
And the poet John Wieners reaches out
Tentatively placing his flabby white fingers
On the tight rump of a young jeaned thing
And I am reminded
Of unmentionable acts
In the darkened cloister
On a backseat of a Greyhound bus
Hurtling cross country
While I read Kerouac
Only to continue a dream that dissolved
Like all lovely memories when
Touched by the reality of spent hours
And then the brutal lights were turned up
Glaring deep into our souls and eyes
Making supposed rebels objects of worship
Which truly domesticates them
But the poet John Wieners could never be housebroken
And it was over.