Stone Soup

A neighbor walked by, a raincoat on his little dog. I thought
about inviting him and the dog out of the rain for a reading
of Howl — facetious, something I was doing for the first time
in a long time, having been scandalized reading parts ages ago
maybe as a wannabee hippie in my senior year at a conservative
college, where, at least, we marched for Civil Rights but had
to go out-of-town across state to the University of Michigan
to protest Viet Nam. I did that with a guy who turned out to
be a disciple of the Crystal Cathedral now-defunct gospel and
who, in retirement, went to a middle-eastern country to preach
the not-yet-quite defunct gospel and got to do a few You-tubes
for posterity before he died. Where have all the flowers gone?
I’m reading Ginsberg in his howling eternal entirety while I’m
sipping really good, homemade soup I call Stone Soup because,
well, you’ve read the children’s book. I just keep adding great
stuff and the soup goes on and on and on in many manifestations
kinda like a Biblical miracle. To read Howl, I think I just
should be stoned, but I’m not sure what that is or how to get
there let alone get back. See, I’m just a faux-hippie from a
conservative college.

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