It was those beers bought with dole money,
money we didn't really have,
money we still don't.
We were burning out before our times;
sitting on hillsides and re-imagining Charlie Parker,
Kerouac and Ginsberg occupying the silences,
as William S Burroughed into our heads and guts.
It was never heady,
those summers spent dreaming,
as some of our number quickly capitulated to the ugly spirit,
the ugly spirit of the age.
It is light years from today;
where I am pushing admin around an empty desk,
as my head empties these memories onto paper,
virtual paper at that.
Where we old jazzers go from here is anybody's guess.