Here's another one of my favorites. It's by Bob Kaufman
. . . Afterwards, They Shall Dance
In the city of St. Francis they have taken down the statue of St. Francis,
And the hummingbirds all fly forward to protest, humming feather poems.
Bodenheim denounced everyone and wrote, Bodenheim had no sweet marijuana dreams,
Patriotic muscateleer, did not die seriously, no poet love to end with, gone.
Dylan took the stone cat's nap at St. Vincent's, vaticaned beer, no defense;
That poem shouted from his nun-filled room, an insult to the brain, nerves,
Save now from Swansea, white horses, beer birds, snore poems, Wales-bird.
Billie Holiday got lost on the subway and stayed there forever.
Raised little peace-of-mind gardens in out of the way stations,
And will go on living in wrappers of jazz silence forever, loved.
My face feels like a living emotional relief map, forever wet.
My hair is curling in anticipation of my own wild gardening.
Poor Edgar Allan Poe died translated, in unpressed pants, ended in light,
Surrounded by ecstatic gold bugs, his hegira blessed by Baudelaire's orgy.
Whether I am a poet or not, I use fifty dollars' worth of air every day, cool.
In order to exist I hide behind stacks of red and blue poems
And open little sensuous parasols, singing the nail-in-the-foot song, drinking cool beatitudes.