Pirate (Loosely in the style of Ginsberg)

 I was born to be a pirate.

Just look at this glorious,

red beard.

 

I want to swashbuckle.

I want to learn what it means

to swashbuckle.

 

I have no clue

but it sounds like

a gay ol’ time.

 

I’ll set sail for Tangiers.

I hear Kerouac and Burroughs calling,

            pushing my clipper

with their divine wind.

 

I’ll let Whitman

with his grubby hat

shiver my timbers.

 

Take my foot.

Take my hand.

I can see Eldorado

in my eye patch.

 

My rum legs jiggle

like jell-o

as the scurvy

pulls my teeth.

 

Wenches love my gums

and Neal Cassady

loves those wenches,

 

a magnificent, stoned

stow away

passed out in a barrel

in the belly of my vessel.

 

We’ll plunder

and steal

and stab

and search for booty.

 

The booty was in

our hearts all along.

Right?                 

 

On the sea-sick tide

I’ll peel off my verse,

like burned skin

to the caw of my parrot

mocking Garcia Lorca

under the gypsy sun.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2018)

This is the third and final one of my poems about Romantic tropes that wasn't complete garbage. Name dropping, slightly dirty jokes, and Tangiers, I had fun using some plays out of Ginsberg's book to write this reflection on life on the high seas.