Trash Tales (12)

Suzette did not aspire to be Allen Ginsberg, and her Howl would not be full of anguish about the destructive forces of capitalism and Society’s evils. She would not conform. She would not be a prey like a lamb. For her Howl, she was to dig deep down to the subjugated self, get in touch with her Canine best mind, release the power of her own soaring call of the wild and send chills down the spines of vertebrates everywhere.

She had seen the best breeds of her generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical shorn to the bone,

dragging their butts through the dark streets at dawn looking for a fire hydrant,

who were expelled from obedience schools for crazy habits,

who cowered in barren rooms in doggie blankets, turning over wastebaskets, and listening to the Thunder Terror through the wall,

who were leashed to cars for the endless ride from New Haven to Seattle, until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering,

who barked continuously seventy hours from park to car to Bellingham,

who drove cross country thirty days to find out if she had a vision or Ursa had a vision to find out Eternity,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz and blew away the suffering for love into a cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio and doggie mill.

[Apologies to Allen Ginsberg and admirers of Howl.]

Ursa did not want to emit rumbling sounds from borborygmus. She needed to expound with grumbling growls that would build in ferocity until the forest and its denizens shook with trepidation.

About Whittoons

Cartoonist, and community organizer who has covered the globe as a doodlebugger, gandydancer, supernumerary steward, Able Bodied Seaman, Wireman, monkey man, Night Baker and dishwasher, Hobo, hitchhiker and husband.
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