She wore a tank top
which read "LIFE SUCKS!"
asked for a quarter,
I gave her twenty bucks,
then read her a poem
from my purple poetry book,
she said, "Thanks dude,"
then gave me that look,
reminding me that rhyming
was just so passé,
that old Jack Kerouac
didn't write that way,
for we need to be released
from the ordered page
deconstruct by randomly mingling,
a la Dali and John Cage.
Smash a Pumpkin,
put Alice in Chains, be obscene,
puke your bourgeois rage.
I said: "It seems that alternative is
now mainstream,
everyone is wearing black, shaving their
domes,
piercing clits, navels, nipples and
scrotums."
Suddenly she winced
in a burst of realization
engulfed by twenty one
years of revelation, exclaiming:
"Holy Gothic hell, you are so
damned right,
you melodic fossil, I am seeing the
light!"
She ran to the corner of
Fourth Avenue and Holden
found the poetry section
at Barnes and Noble,
pulled out the twenty bucks,
bought a volume
by Emily Dickinson.
Smiling, I proceeded
down the crowded street
sharing the Gospel of Rhyming
with all I did meet.
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