In keeping with my James Franco phase, and in keeping with my predilection for biopics about writers, I watched Howl last night and disappeared into weird ’50s beat poet ruminations. I don't read poetry that often because it seems like you have to think too much about it. But I like Ginsberg's Howl simply because it's nice to read. Strange wonderful imagery from an eccentric brain. Here's a tad for you to chew on:

...backyard green tree cemetery dawns,

wine drunkenness over the rooftops,

storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon

blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree

vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-

lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind....