THE UNFATHOMABLE REVELATIONS
CONFESSIONS OF A BROOKLYN ICONOCLAST
By: Dr. Mel Waldman
Old Brooklyn is gone and the deep snow has melted.
The turquoise butterflies have flown away.
I watch the ubiquitous scorpions emerge with the mutilated dawn.
They surround me.
But I do not exist.
On this apocalyptic day, I inhale the unfathomable revelations of my nonbeing.
I’m not here.
Yet I speak to a young street poet in Dunkin’ Donuts and reveal the Outlaw Bible, a cornucopia of cool jazzy words.
“Read the Beatniks,” I recommend.
“Who are they?” Ghetto Man asks.
“Poets and writers of the Beat Generation,” I bellow.
“I don’t read poetry.”
His bleak words launch me into Inner Space and my rocket ship explodes.
My lips sputter, “William S. Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and other rebels They wrote the music of the revolution.”
His vacant eyes gaze at the noose of nothingness that encircles us.
Old Brooklyn is gone, my friends are dying, the baby boomers are blasting off, and dead outlaws are forgotten.
(Can you dig it?)
After the crimson sun vanishes, I travel through sweet phantasmagoria to Old Brooklyn and listen to the music of the revolution, cool jazz for a Brooklyn iconoclast.