Jonas Mekas

they say the days

for ideals are over.

be practical. work hard. study.

or fly to the moon.

but I go on living,

in a daze,

a bit remote,

like a misfit.

they all say yes.

but I'll say no,

from basic principle,

like salt.

some kind of born

dissident;

worse yet,

an anarchist!

even friends are

growing suspicious.

with a handsweep, a parting glare,

I toss on my scarf,

stick a book of poems

in my pocket

and take off.

no, I can't stand the noise

of traffic.

this damn civilization

is hard on the ears,

not to mention

the lungs, liver and

other body parts.

I just don't get Salys Semerys,

or Sandburg, or

Mayakovsky.