POEM FOR ALLEN GINSBERG
Went to visit the famous poet
in two years he’ll be a registered physician
haunting us with his medicine bag.
We plan to move to his neighborhood then
perhaps get an apartment on his street in town.
I was certain he does anything he does well
so I made a pilgrimage through panorama.
The friendly faces of Hot Dice
lying about on dirty couches in the gallery Lo Giudice
we coursed and rambled our way through Soho
meeting Cassandra and friend and which as I recall
good memories of friends and righteous connections
in the not so old days. Met with J.B. who lingered on her bicycle.
Off we went when aroused by exorbitant entrance fees
pursued the poet who was kind enough with comps.
What a sense of history incensed the theatre
feeling as having been lost to us we lamented
remembered old streets and new
visiting my home town in springtime shortly
and return to this after two years in a landscape
landscaping soul roads and heavenly paradises.
and i’m now an actor he said and
something or other about Time Magazine
was the last in the theatre.
Not when i have only 10 minutes to be what i am
rather than the poems I didn’t bring and wanted him to read.
Not as i merely have nothing to say
when to talk to act to be altogether as he
not as to be insensitive of soft nights air quavering
through the poet’s curling lips. I wondered if he shampooed his beard.
Then there was a sweet Peter Orlovsky again as i seemed
to remember him from Le Metro
as to inquire of Bodhisattva how come there’s
always something beautiful about Peters?
As to ask how come Michaels are the way they are?
Back to the Allen in the theatre where the bicycle rested
uneasily downstage alleyway
and he was off to read marvelously bastard
i had to laugh i loved him there wasn’t time
i was jealous
i am not interested in outward things
i meditate i live quietly
i should have gone with him to Columbia
they were striking against the alumni
i would be exorcizing the pentagon?
in place of which i offer my forbidden fruits
How heroin laughs at my brother and my uncle Seymour
who still shits in his pants even today as he cleans
toilet bowls in the post office and can never
remember if it’s a boy or a girl reminds me
of your mother and my grandmother. God knows
i have been saved from a death in the family
but i am the meshpuchah and it’s not necessarily
a fantasy that one day when i ring the doorbell they
won’t be there. It’s a premonition a reality
I am little Obie whose stomach was half cut out
i am my uncle Nathan who sold fruit from a pushcart on Rivington St
and played with little girls
i am my aunt Clara who stole a dime from my brother Bernie’s pocket
i’m my uncle Herman who got his face shot off
on the Russian front all the time wanting to go home.
what ever happened to you Obie, Nathan, Herman?
Where are you now?
I’m my friend Michael who was walking on the
train tracks in Nova Scotia and got run over
i’m Violet and Tony whom the fucking cops
tormented for months when they got busted
i’m skinny Howard exiled in whispers
like Cecil de Lenoir, Claude Kendal, 1934 i think
even if i can’t affort to reprint it
I’m also Dan Basen and Mrs. Landfield and
aunt Marty whose cancer haunts every antique
collected by uncle Lee’s second wife Gertrude.
Where are you now?
You who hunger for my poems
are you not my friend? From immediate friends
i receive immediate spiritual sustenance
i too am hungry for the love of friends.
When I go fishing it’s for whales and i always
throw’m back. We’ve been living on cigarettes
and coffee and we’re fortunate to be able to grow our own food.
© Love-Cycles, 1973 – 2015