Indoor Herb Garden

I found God,
in between the hole in the fence
and the rusted hot overgrown yard
of public financing.
I stole some laws to keep myself warm,
and they did,
I smoked my way into Heaven-lined Hell,
and it was,
I was put away for neglect to property and home,
and I howled my way into the legal offices
chanting “Ommm”
in bearded defiance.
I cast bets at the racetrack praying for a buck
and I lost big,
walked up misty fogged hills passing houses
of Victorian make,
whilst young bohemians were painting
the Void’s eyelash
on their own garage of artistic explosions,
and cast back my head to the wind
so that my prayers might actually be heard
by the Host.
I picked sunflowers and placed them in the sun,
I prayed to Christ in the Mosque
much to some annoyance but was accepted,
but when I recited the Koran
in Church that Sunday I was asked to leave.
I thrive on hypocrisy,
and so I found God.
Worked in the fields next to Immigration,
and loved it,
found the mountainous sights enjoyable in my vodka mug
and decided to find my ways in the dark, naked,
sat next to the head of Buddha and laughed and whispered jokes
in the golden morning haze,
told stories to the eager young faces of America’s finest bright minds
and loved every moment of it.
I dropped everything to see the world but was in the end,
Lost in a daze,
I searched on my knees for the bearded flask from which to drink my wine,
And so I left the long-haired woman where she stood,
I found that life is too lost in unhappy minute moments
And there and then decided to breathe in the mountain city air
And to puff on happiness’ warm gun
Lying on my back to the sun that filtered through my garden’s windowsill
And eat chewy candy from India and Europe to delight myself.
And I walked to the marketplace in total silence
Choosing nutritious snacks to chew on whilst I inhaled narcotic
Servitude,
Worshipped in the cool lush rock n’ roll halls stoned, and wept
At conformity,
Listened to the president’s speech on terror and laughed at fear of the invisible,
While changing the channel
To witness the 4,201st death on the list in Iraq and curse the ignorant.
Perhaps this world is flawed,
Actually one could prove it to be true,
But I’m tired of missing life, and, I think,
So are you.

Not bad. It is a beat send-up which has its merits – but there are more beats than Jack and Alan and you do yourself a disservice by not reading anthologies of that time. Libraries and used book stores are your best friend. Read deeply! Check out Ira Cohen or Ed Saunders or Ted Berrigan online. Check out Charles Henri Ford. This surreal-neo-beat scene still thrives. The second generation New York School poets spawned a handmade ‘zine underground and I suggest you find your way into it. Online is only the tip of the iceberg. Poetry is best when you can fold it and stuff it into your pocket to read later on. Lastly, try and avoid trite and cute turns of phrase. They are below your ability. And drop every instance of "whilst" Elizabeth. This is the ’90’s!