I think I would have been a beat poet
Or a protest singer
Soul rubbed raw by reality scraping against idealism and truth.
Sharing in verse hope and pain. Not just mine —
Others may need a beat poet or a protest singer
To use the pen or the pick as a mirror and balm.
And we would sing or read or rap or march or plan or reaffirm,
Upsetting status quo gently or roughly by the shoulders with Art Revolution.
Meeting, laughing, growling
Gathering new friends or the merely curious
in coffee shops or untidy close apartments or even someone’s unironically beautiful beach home.
We would mark these times with great output and remember them decades later looking at black and white photos of ourselves that no one remembers being taken while we sang and spoke of change.
But I am not a beat poet
Or a protest singer.
Are there such things anymore, or are we post-beat?
I sit in coffee shops, though, and beautiful homes, calling out an occasional verse
hoping to hear the response of another raw soul.