Amy has an interview this morning, and the Aveo, while running, doesn’t sound like a car that can make it to Pflugerville. So I drove on the rented Beetle, and finished “Howl.”

I was never into the Beats. I took one look at On The Road and thought Kerouac was a moron who heard about Finnegan’s Wake, dropped acid, and started writing.

I sound like a classical lit major.

In any event, I’ve gotten through a reading. Just one for now. I liked the meter, but I couldn’t tell you what the hell Ginsberg is talking about.

That will take additional readings coupled with research. I figure if I learn about Ginsberg, and his muse Carl Solomon, I’ll have a lock on the first part of this project.

I hate being so clinical about poetry. I’d like it to be emotional, but I can’t tell if this poem is a celebration or if it’s an epitaph.