In a previous life, I majored in English and considered becoming a poet. I even studied under a brilliant poetry teacher named David Kirby.
But that was before I decided that making money would help further my career as a consumer of food, housing and petroleum products. I remain big fans of those products, so here I remain, well-fed, well-sheltered and on a full tank, compensated handsomely for chronicling the weirdness of normal daily life.
But every now and again, I remember that I used to be 20 and that I spent time reading poetry about cows playing baseball and popes chanting the phrase "Hot dog, you bet."
Back when I was unencumbered by life's fishnets of mortgages, matching shoes and sobriety, I used to read a lot of beat poetry. I once saw Allen Ginsberg in the quad of the student union at Florida State University recite from his epic poem "Howl."
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
contemplating jazz...
There was something beyond surreal about seeing him all hairy and long-sleeved in the hot Florida afternoon recite these amazing words, while tie-dyed freaks sat cross-legged and comatose on the ground and sorority girls in tank tops and striped Dolphin shorts scurried past. I'll never forget how much hair spilled out of his head. It just seemed to billow from his scalp and his chin and god knows where else. His face seemed like it was peeking through this hair curtain, there was so much of it.
I've grown up now and moved on to less serious verse. Cowboy poet and former large animal veterinarian Baxter Black is my cup of tea these days.
Each day, Keillor talks about various writers and poets and then offers a poem that usually has nothing to do with anything of significance on that day.
Today's offering is "Dog," by beat poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti. It's one of my favorites.
Dog
The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn't hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do.
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He's afraid of Coit's Tower
but he's not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog's life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
barking
democratic dog
engaged in real
free enterprise
with something to say
about ontology
something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master's Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramophone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth
some Victorious answer
to everything