Revolution

I stood, surrounded by stacks of books, in what was the center of the West Coast cultural revolution of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, City Lights Booksellers & Publishers of San Francisco, California. All the beatnik poets haunted these walls and like lead from a cannon they exploded out with ferocious fervor to spread their cry of freedom. They rebelled against the chains of society and religion and any and all who would dare to strangle their longing to breath free. "Let freedom ring!" resounded down brick alleyways and winding boulevards. Joyous cries filled the foggy air of the city by the bay as happiness flooded the streets of San Francisco. Tyranny was banished, freedom took the throne. But that’s not the end of the story. The poetry of freedom met a poetic end in hepatitis and livers rebelling against their users.

Like a patient in the hospital rebelling against the life-support system; like a vacuum rebelling against the power source; like a car rebelling against gasoline, they rebelled against breathing and died with a great howl of “FREEDOM!!!!!!”

And now, as in grief we gaze at the cold corpse on the hospital bed, the useless vacuum gathering dust in the middle of the living room floor, the unmovable rusted-out car on the side of the highway, we have to ask ourselves: maybe they didn’t rebel against tyranny; maybe they rebelled against life.