For Howard Dean, and with apologies to Allen Ginsberg
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the Red Roof Inn victory scream looking for an angry fix,
pinheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the thumbhead dynamo at the microphone podium,
who dreadlocks and birkenstocks and hollow-eyed trustfunds sat up smoking Djarums in the supernatural darkness of campaign volunteer cabins floating across the tops of Iowa City contemplating techno,
who bared their brains to Heaven under I-80 and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on Guantanamo roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and PoMo gibberish among the scholars of peace,
incomparable salted streets of shuddering snow removal trucks in the mind leaping towards Gallup polls of New Hampshire & Vermont, illuminating all the motionless world of primaries between,
who sank all night in submarine light as partial results floated out and sat through the stale organic beer desolate Fugazzi MP3s, listening to the crack of doom on the FoxNews jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from Dubuque to Indianola to Council Bluffs to Madison County Bridge bitching about Kerry attack ads,
a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Hotel Fort Des Moines,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and promising travels to many states,
whose intellects disgorged in total freakout for seven days and nights on a campaign bus to hell,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Hampshire leaving a trail of ambiguous email addresses on Days Inn napkins,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the Sioux City Trailways station wondering where to go, and went, to the Jeff Gordon Pepsi machine that eats their change,
who jumped in a Cedar Rapids airport limousine with the smelly juniors from Evergreen State on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who howled on their knees in a Mason City Subway and were dragged off the roof by Jared waving placards and manuscripts,
who howled some more at the KFC and Pizza Huts of political despair to the scowls of bourgeois assistant managers,
You know something? You know something?
Howard Dean
I am with you in New Hampshire, in South Carolina and Oklahoma and Arizona and North Dakota and New Mexico,
Howard Dean
I will go to California and Texas and New York and go to South Dakota and Oregon and Washington and Michigan,
Howard Dean
I will go to Washington, D.C.. seeking jazz or sex or soup, taking back the White House,
Because Bush Knew and I have next semester off
Burma Shave
A Kaddish for his candidacy, anyway. I hope to oblige you soon, Mr. Simon.
Posted by: iowahawk | February 18, 2004 at 04:37 PM
I'm waiting for you to Kaddish for John Kerry.
Posted by: Roger Simon | February 17, 2004 at 11:22 PM
*snap, snap, snap, snap*
...like, coooool, man...
Posted by: RichInOC | January 21, 2004 at 03:08 AM
That's some great stuff Iowa. You might be the only person who actually captured the pathos of being a Deaniac on loser day. I almost feel sorry for the misguided sons o' bitches. Only almost. Your just that good! I hope I'm not the only one who read this. Think I'll post a link on LGF just in case.
Posted by: Papertiger | January 21, 2004 at 01:16 AM