Myself with Diane di Prima

You are my idiosyncratic grandmother,

And I— the disappointment who didn't follow your beat.

I hear your scolding voice in my head

As your words sift through my mind.

I confess that I am aching to live your life,

But am wary of the mess,

Which you describe without complaint: 

The dirty beds— when you can get one,

Otherwise— late nights spent with strangers—

Sticking needles in their arms,

And fingers in every place— the 

Possibilities of experiences

Taught you to:

Make language move like sex—

The words melting into the light 

You describe— making my mind glow yellow-gold.

I am found in the beat

Of the jazz you play—

Lost in the silent room

Where your tale is displayed 

On these dead pages...

They are all I hold;

I feel the disappointment too. 

I have friends like me,

And— with them— feel superiority 

Because I am in possession of your ideas. 

I condemn them lazy

For not stepping with the beat—

For not recognizing the power in their feet,

Which could keep them from sinking into the ground. 

But I have stopped walking too,

And have grown comfortable in my immobility.

I am losing freedom—

Losing sight—

Losing the pace of the stride as you walk before me,

So I trudge—sloppily— in your footprints.