Douglas Forsythe

It’s funny in a way

Kerouac and Coltrane died yesterday

One a drunk, the other deified

Small town names 

Making giant steps for mankind

Though the road they rode 

made them beaten and fried

Leaving one to be beloved 

The other despised

As a has been

Except by friends and confidants


Burroughs shot his wife again

Trying to shoot the apple off her head

Though with a gun instead

He missed

Of course

She’s dead


Ginsberg goes off to court tomorrow

His newest book seen as foul

A decrepit example of human morals

Degraded, despite its call

And yet they were able to publish Howl


Ferlinghetti died back in February

At this point I’m quite wary

Of what will come next

All these geniuses 

Going through so much trouble

Only for a few to end up in a puddle

Whether it be beer or blood

Yet some have risen above those 

Who looked down on them

And lived so long as to see an end

Befitting what they did