Beat Solitude

When kids speak of “’tude,”
they mean sassy or rude,
some amplitude of raw feeling
projected by some gal or dude.

They probably don’t mean
“solitude,” being cast away,
all alone, on one’s own,
isolated from the human way.

Solitude’s a plenitude
of isolation, a condition
that might lead to beatitude,
the whole “Beat” thing,

as Jack said. A lonely dude,
he hit the sauce, maybe
because he lacked certitude
about the benefits of solitude.

Like the Dharma bum
he morphed into, watchman
on a fire tower, its altitude
conditioning him to rectitude,

he shrank youthful magnitude
to something the size of haiku,
went off the road, lived in the zoo
of a mind bent not from Quaaludes

but from booze. Though he boarded
with Mamere, he could feel solitary,
as if she weren’t there, while he
processed memories he’d hoarded.

Of all the Beats, Jack maybe most
needed the solace of solitude,
but acting irresolute was a bad ad
for his boozy fate, no beatitude.