Yell: Part One Continued

Yell

For All the Lost Brothers

A Bro Tribue Poem to Allen Ginsburg's "Howel"

Part One: Continued

Who nuked sardine and brie quesadillas, their mothers borsht and day old bread after an all night party,

Who finished off the cans of beer in the morning,

Who heard about Che and his motorcycle and decided to drive across the country, but got an entry level job at their dad’s law firm,

Yell 

For the Lost Brother

I

I have seen the most awesome bras' of my frat 

pummeled by some crazy shit, all bug-eyed, 

having to take the buss into to the hood 

to score some roids, 

Man pretty brosefs trying to kick it old school 

on a campus full of posers, 

Who hungover and their allowance cut and their most

kick ass hat stolen and blown out of their minds sat 

playing Madden '09, 

Who tripped on shrooms and saw the Cowboy's offensive line 

acting shady on top of the dorm glowing, 

Who never went to class not stoned in some

stuck up liberal town with asshole profs, 

Who got kick out of one college after the next for 

partying to much and breaking shit,

Who were sloths smelling like b.o. deleting po-

rn from their computer listening to their dormmate

and his girlfriend going at it, 

Who got kicked in their nutz for stealing booze 

from the sorority house, 

Who blacked out in Vegas or spring breaked in Cancun, 

died or went to the ER every semester, 

With career goals, with chicks, with booze, with hazing 

rush and pledges and endless games of beer pong,

Can't see with minds all messed up 

the flashing lights caught between Home and Atlantic City 

lighting up your dorm,  

Hangover holiday of cafeterias, intramural field at sunrise, 

Natie Ice vomit over balconies, main drag driving after 

nights of drinking, waking up on Sunday on the cold cool quad, 

Who  roadtriped from Louisville to Chicago 

jacked up on Red Bull until hitting a deer 

broken down dead in bumbleville drained of thought 

in the light of the Piggy Wiggly parking lot, 

Who sank all night in the futon of Dirty's 

scrapped up out of the pillows and finished last nights keg 

to the laptop speakers of Gateway,

Who would not shut up about their ride from bar crawl to bar 

to house party to the Quad to dorm , 

(I will be releasing this poem in segments not section by section, it would just be to long for one post)

Read the original in the comments. 

Yell: Part One Continued

Yell

For All the Lost Brothers

Part One Continued

Who sat in their aunt’s basement passed out from too much Jager and the dopiest chronic and snuck out of the sliding doors to find they had woken up in the wrong state,

Who walked all night to a shady taco stand on the Blv. because they couldn’t control the cravings for quesadillas and ‘Dr. Pibb,’

Who became an expert on the intricacies of national politics every four years at the flippy-cup table only to find another bumper sticker on his car that read ‘throw the douche bag out’ in December,

Who worked all night on that paper with no sleep and only coffee as an aide-de-camp rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

Yell: the next installment

Yell 

For all the Lost Brothers

(and fine ladies)

Part 1 continued

Who were blown into harbors and pushed into pools by Marine buddies and lacrosse teammates,

Who burned out in old warehouses, shifted boxes, drove cabs, woke up on a suburban and picked through the trash for bottles in the basement of a high school party hung-over and stumbled back to the room above parents’ garages,

Who walked from Rose St. to Main with a head full of beer and a gut full of vomit and a snowbank full of urine to open a convenience store at six in the morning,

Who  cried for days and left the garage door open when they tried to leave the engine running under the sterile glow of the florescent light & and their trust fund shall be renewed again,

Who ate worms of the rush hazing or suffered the consequences at the hands of the older brothers,

Who wined for another slice of pizza pie with their controllers full of chicken grease and pretzel salt, 

Yell: Continued

Yell 

For all the Lost Brothers

Part 1 

(continued)

who ripped off neck bandages and staid with horror committed every misdemeanor in the book cooked wild game in estate cabins

who yelled on their backs at the bus depot and were pushed off park benches by parents and transcripts

who let themselves be placed into remedial algebra by saintly student advisors, and squealed with delight,

who knocked up and knocked down girlfriends, boyfriends and lovers in the morning after class after practice after parties,

who lost girls to skirts to dickhead intellectuals who took them after years of absent catering after they had given them all of their best stories, heart and lies, 

Yell

Yell 

For all the Lost Brothers

(and fine ladies)

Part 1 continued

who disappeared to join the Senior Frogs of Panama leaving only the shadows of Birkenstock sandals and the lava and ash of Jack Johnson albums scattered in San Berlin firepit,

who reappeared in Reno with FBI (Female Body Investigator) shirts and Aviators passing out incomprehensible Ron Paul leaflets,

who seesawed for days on end raising funds to stamp out the continued existence of banal but awful sounding handicap,

who distributed Hooters quartersheets in hoody and headphones to get enough scratch to buy a souper six pack of Raman,

who broke down crying in plastic suits in saunas and convulsing before the scale of assiduous ‘improvement,’

(I am sorry that these posts are getting shorter, the material is getting tricky)

Yell: Part One (Cont.)

Yell 

I

For the Lost Brothers 

(Continued) 

a lost line of legit no nonsense athletes throwing the ball in the wrong end-zone and eating goalpost on the way down,

ahhhahhhh bellowing puking yelling yellowing half-assed wives tales liquor before beer and 4 am brawls and  emergency rooms and lockup and the real world,

whole nerdy bros locked for all-nighter monster test copying with brilliant bloodshot eyeballs, the key thrown across the room,

who hid for days in Zoned Out Library sending random  pic messages of some book Foust across the stacks,

putting up with Midwest panic attacks and Californian depression and skull splitting headaches of the south under finals stress in the basement of the Union,

who bummed rides from kids going home not knowing who or how to go, and left, without anyone knowing or caring,

who drank Shasta in station wagons wagons wagons rolling over railroad ties to towns as bleak a Mayberry in warm backseats,

who studied anatomy accounting biology economics engineering and political science  because the market always needs you in America,

who moved into a single in the summer trying to find a suitable fantasy football league who were fantasy football leagues,

who only got discouraged when their quarterback gets injured in training camp in Tucson,

who followed that guy that one time to a show in Amsterdam to see what he meant by carrousel of women,

who sprawled on the beach of Miami with maxed out credit cards seeking Latin or tail or hamburgers,  and found a fortune-teller to talk about life and politics and gave up to a flight over the gulf,