May I sing you a story? This is how it begins:
On a snowy white evening in Michigan
I stumbled onto the scene again
near the beat lighthouse in Mackinaw.
In the woods, where Ojibwa lit fires on shore,
beneath the oak, ash and sycamore
I stood with my axe, a lone troubadour
and this is what my tired eyes saw:
Kerouac and Ginsberg eating pie and ice cream
on a towel from the Chelsea. It felt like a dream.
When both of them saw me and started to scream
I asked, “Hey guys. Got any more pie?”
They quit the damned yelling and shared a quick glance,
then Jack stuck his hands so deep in his pants
I wondered if there were fire ants
or crabs biting him on the penis,
but no, instead he withdrew from his slacks
two small little balls and a handful of Jack.
Then Allen stood up and ruined the snacks
by trying to do the Charleston.
“What in Hell are you doing?” Jack asked with a sigh,
as portly old Allen tap-danced on the pie.
“Moloch, oh Moloch!” he howled and cried
and asked if I’d ever read John Donne.
“No, sir, I’ve not, but I’ve read William Blake,”
I said with a smirk. Then Jack ran towards the lake
called Huron, it’s waters so dark and opaque.
“Follow me,” he yelled. “The water’s great.”
Allen took off and I watched in chagrin
as he stomped down the path towards Lake Michigan
screaming something about wine and gin.
That’s when I smelled fresh pomegranate
And heard a bell ringing, one that could have been gold,
wrung by a creature with a visage so old,
be it he or a she I could not behold.
“Pie anyone?” roared its voice.
“I have apple and cherry. Raspberry too.
Key lime and pumpkin and berries of blue.
And just to be certain I’m not misconstrued:
“What you want can be had. It’s your choice.”
I stood there in silence, in shock and in awe.
From the left Ginsberg said I should sew up my maw.
“Ignore him,” Jack shouted, from East Mackinaw.
“Write what you see, kid. Leave nothing out.”
So I picked up my axe, began plucking away,
in the time between night and beginning of day,
trying to think of just what to say:
“Something’s happening, but I don’t know what…”