[continued from the third fragment]
Some items had appeared from the Beat poets pack: a bag
Of lemon-tree scented leaves, rice papers, a pre-smoked fag.
"Want to get high?" were the words I remember him saying.
And picturing those college dorm days and disco dazing,
"No thank you," I responded, recalling the old stories
Of mellowed-out dudes, blue smoke, and next-day lost memories.
He reconsidered himself, with a flash, stashed back his hash,
Leaving behind just the books and some tiny bits of ash.
Inside his bound treasures he showed me texts — some long, some terse;
Some looked more like paragraph than some standard poem's verse.
"Prose is poetry and poetry is prose," would all he
Would say. "As long as it has beat, man!" I began to see
The nature of his craft: direct as can be. He began
To read of a meeting at a supermarket fruit stand ...
[this ends the fourth fragment*]
________________
* More blog backups on Blogosphere to scour. -pt
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