An Interpretation of Ezra Pound’s “Canto 1”

And we broke camp

and packed up the Jeep

with a sadness that is felt

only with a sunrise 

and a sip of medium ground coffee.

      The River beckoned us back

to Her shores, but the Sunset 

called for us in the West;

the Idahoan landscape was silent

and sleeping when the dirt road

turned to black ink -

We drove for days.

       Kerouac called to me.

He said this is the way,

but the fields of corn he had warned

would burn and buildings grew

from the ashes. 

The horizon filled 

with temples of Commerce.

       In Seattle we poured a bottle of bourbon 

for those who came before me -

Keats, Ginsberg, Whitman, Pound -

Your words are swallowed 

by concrete.

We searched for a respite.

A dark basement bar

with Monks moniker - I questioned 

the cool cat in slurred speech,

"You play some sweet sax,

why are You in this dank dive."

      "Everyone must pay the toll."

"But what is the price for art."

       "I play what they pay me for;

           The gods are dead.

             The masses wish for three-chord, Campbell's can pop."

I succumbed to the pulse of the piano.

In the in in between of cheap whiskey

and wine

Kerouac appeared once again.

Urgency resonates off his tongue,

     "You must follow the tracks -

         Through the fields, mountains, and cities -

            They call to you.

               They will hear your words

                  And sing your songs."