SoC 3:1

Counter Culture I

The night is cold and damp,
The sky colorless and quiet,
Doors closed, lamps lit,
A fire burning close by.

The pieces of paper
Lie flat on the dining room table,
With each a yellow pencil as company.

Ginsberg takes his seat,
As do Burroughs and Kerouac;
Wine is served,
It’s Kerouac’s turn to pop the cork.

Writing begins and pages are filled.
With what? With the flow of consciousness,
Well into the early morning hours.

Out of words, pencils worn,
The trio crawls to bed,
Thinking about a late breakfast,
And their next road trip.