John Sinclair

Last year, I had seen John Sinclair present some of his poems at the Ann Arbor Library and I thought two things.
1) He is an amazing poet. Some people write poems to be read, John's poems are meant to be heard.
2) He does these presentations for himself as much as he does them to for the audience. It's evident that when he recites his poems, he is taken back to when he wrote it, to when he had these experiences.

With that in mind, I had written this.
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When I am an old man,
my beard will be wild.
I'll wear a fanny pack
my khaki's are torn
and, of course, my shirt is black.

My tales of lore, looking back
to a yesteryear where men were cats
and women were babes.
Take me away, my poem, take me
to my old glory days.

Of baseball and jazz and pot
I still think of Lennon (alot)
and my love of Monk grows
like Sunshine beads through my woes.

Take me away, my poem, take me
to my glory days.
When my rage would awaken
the sun, rise me too.
My cries howl with the hoardes.
My beat goes on and on.

My rages of youth replaced
by a calm and mellow oasis
slowly spreading
over my heart's arid landscape.
In my soul, I feel her
Somehow, through my pain.
I love, though, for sure.

Take me here, my poem, take me
to my glory days where I live.
My wife, my love.
I adore you until I have no more life.
Let my mouth tell you through and through.
All my days, I love you. I do.