I'm talking to myself again (to Allen Ginsberg)
i know you’re there, man,
i can’t write fast enough to you, Ginsberg.
GINSBERG! where did Whitman’s Beard lead you? where have you been hiding,
in fields of glitter and butterflies and green leaves of grass?
Ginsberg no one takes me as seriously as you do except Bukowski but he is drunk and asleep on the couch I can’t wake him up he was drinking expired beer and playing with his coleman lantern until three this morning, he told me was fucking crazy of the nutcase women that are drawn to him like whore-moths to a light.
Ginsberg did you ever ride shotgun across states in a cherry cherry-stem tying into knots chevy staring at the deliciously ugly brown and red and orange striped velvet interior carelessly caressing your fingertips along its slim skinny lines? i caught a glance of it shining in the delaware sun and it was beautiful for a second!
Ginsberg how do you feel about New York graffiti? every illegible complex shape pangs hard in my gut – i want to fight the man, ginsberg, i want to claim walls my own, take back the private police landscape. join me Allen, we’ll write earth-shattering verse onto train cars with bright pink spray-paint.
Ginsberg what did you use when you were out of matches?
if you were sitting in a nice, secluded grassy spot that smelled like dog shit would you move?
did you slap mosquitoes when they landed on the fleshy canvas of your skin?
Ginsberg, i got water in my lighter...
...Ginsberg the lighter’s working again it’s four hours later and i’m in a jimi hendrix shirt and my big brother’s red plaid and blue cotton boxers. the navy took him and forgot his underwear.
Ginsberg i can’t tell if this is to you or the audience, i desperately want it to be to you.
Ginsberg, the moon is gorgeous tonight and the stars are all silver twinkling clichés of romance and cosmic vibrations and mystical visions.
Ginsberg what do you do when you’ve lost the most beautiful touch, skin, muscles, state of being, thoughts and presence? and then what happens when you block the feeling off seal it up in concrete a little piece of your loveheart grey and just a bit withered and no one and no thing, no thought or sensation can make you come except a summer night’s breeze?
yet a warm wind has begun to howl tonight
pushing the pen into words