I haven't thought of Allen Ginsberg in a long time.  He once gave me a new worldview, new to me, anyway.  Among others in the beat generation, he shaped my thinking.  He gave me the idea to float over myself and my niche, seeing things as a humorous, satirical crow might, looking sideways at myself as an actor in a  spoof on life.
     My goal, in 1965, was to live in a flimsy wooden apartment building in New York, a grimy place with a dirty naked window, a single unshaded lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, a dirty old roach infested mattress.  I wanted to live on French bread and red wine, and hang around coffee houses, hearing the brilliant thoughts of Ginsberg and Ferlingetthi and their friends.  I wanted to suffer for ART, and maybe, maybe, someday, have some brilliant thoughts of my own.
     I forgot to do that, but some of the time, I have remembered to be the humorous crow.  Did I let them down, or were they a little bit pleased to see another crow watching the show from outside the circle?
     They were, in a  sense, my parents, the Beat Poets and writers.  They raised a generation of us, and now they begin to leave us.  They were wise and brave and outspoken, even in the midst of McCarthyism.  Who is as wise and brave as they?  Who can lead our young toward enlightenment when most of us wallow in a self-centered hole of materialism and fear?
     Am I suddenly supposed to be wise and brave?  I need more time!
     Hell is when your gurus die and you aren't ready to take their places.

                                - Dandelion de la Rue