To the beat poets...

Music, Like some broke down necessity, fleeting, ringing in my head and letting me let go Feeling high, yet touching down, grounded, Lyrical alchemy, and wondering, if I smoked, yet i haven't. Music, like the beats of the late poets Jazzy, background to something that was very important, a culture Marijuana and Jazz in the Kerouac sense Stifling the rumors, and taking control of my senses, however unseen They had the music, they had the music, they HAD the MUSIC In the off canter, couch-locked, trumpet, saxophone, style In the snare drum, hum-drum, hits, hits of something that was faint a lyrical balance letting the world know how they felt How their influences were felt In the stand up, bass line, of standing up, and reaching out, to speak your mind Tapping their feet to the rythms and tapping their souls to the music, letting the mic do all the work In the sense of the revolution, Che Gueveras of their time, my time, our time, our time, to hear, That ringing in our ears, That stinging on our breath, To spit the words of the soul out onto the small crowded bars, As piano men played piano songs, and drummers drummed the stances, cadences In time, or out of time, right on time. This is for you my collegues, my inspirations, my music loving, hard feeling, need induced brothers and sisters You filled smoke filled rooms with a passion of anxiety, With a revolution. With a statement about "How it was..." How it should go down How true lyrical jazz should sound Smoking stale cigarettes, and drinking heavily, Black, and White, Hispanic, or his panic? Beat gods, and goddesses. Or maybe just martyrs of a generation that would never understand.