lady beats.

who stole the voices
of the hep dames,
the jazz ridden babes
of soul--?

corso's said they were forgotten
but there.
i've read them trapped
between streams
of jack's benzedrine consciousness,
his heart & neal's beating
settling not with any
for they were all marys,
janets, or claires.

the world cares not for the debauchery of women.

i,  too, fade.
the only poets i know are men,
mad ones
sick with leaving.

out there,
i know there's road for me.
i'll paint my story
white line by white line.