Poetry Archives

          a friend once told me I could find you
          either sitting in on a  street stairway
          smoking a joint or at some adult show
          watching an afternoon stripper

          tip
          top
          world
          pop

          incense burning inside
          the City Light Book Store

          brown shit sky that hung over your pen
          it’s a lucky thing for those cats
          you choose to tabloid in your courtship jewel word tightrope scripts across a flat skull world
          that you died so fucking honestly
          gossip harps playing the notes
          of your poetry
          all the way up to no where and back again
          taking you to that place in your mind
          where you went too to find Nirvana
          taking the quake right faces admirals
          critics
          and
          friends
          transvestite’s stoner’s politician’s, bikers
          lawyer’s religious robes our fathers and mothers
          upper class
          middle class
          Americans
          to the journey inside your mind

          your blue thoughts
          contemporary insights

          to much
          for a world that couldn’t
          afford to understand
          compassion

          sweat drift-spume Ruhr-Gebiet

so what   lives an experiment
so what   if it’s a police state
          where you can’t afford to have
secrets   so what if we all are going to die
so what   if it’s not important
so what

          that you were never known as a historian
a
lover     or a romantic

          so what

          chronicles of the people
          you knew
          the events of your life

          the bulb blooms after the bones turn to dust

          A moment in between the dream
          three blue moons falling within
          four turns of the calendar

          the day of the Tipplers falling
          three times
          within two and a half turns
          the forces of the spiritual plane
          touching the physical plane
          a transfer of enlightenment.
so what
          you lived in a generation
          where even the people
          who cultured it could not afford
          to accept an explanation for your genuis
          drugs
          death
          disease

there weren’t enough of them left to make a difference anyway

          the prophet who became a poet
          when you think about it
          the difference between yourself and
          the others who beat
          against the machine
          until it killed them or
          they killed themselves
          isn’t  that much
          except you Allen Ginsberg
          died an honest death
          living in a world of clay
          writing with words of stone

          ashes of the body
          the soul
          passing through this world
          into the next world
          on its continuous journey
          in finding its existence

          and now your oppressors
          have no other choice
          but to listen to the words
          of Silent Springs

          all the kings’ men
          couldn’t put the egg back
          but you did didn’t you
          A.G., with patience and
          an astute understanding of the glass bead
          you fixed him put him
          in the cupboard
          looking to finish what you began
          didn’t you Buddha.