I told myself I’d never put original poetry up on my blog because certain publications don’t take poems that have already been published on personal blogs, but rather than do the same kind of spiel that I did two days ago for Whitman’s birthday, I’m going to post this poem for Allen Ginsberg’s. NSFW: It gets sexual, political, and trippy all at the same time, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. I also think the line spacing is a mess, but it is what it is I guess. Hope you all enjoy!
What thoughts I have on you tonight, Allen Ginsberg.
As I sit lonely, trembling, and cracking under the stresses of my day to day.
I imagine you and me. We’d talk about the crazy visions of blue Buddhas we receive every night and why the American flag is stained with stripes of blood.
Through alleyways and past streetlights we’d walk.
I gasp for breath trying to catch up with you, but you run too fast. You wily old poet, you.
Cézanne’s masterpieces adorn the sidewalks where the homeless lay their heads.
you drift away on your mescaline magic carpet saluting Hell’s Angels and landing on a cactus in the desert of Mexico.
Back on the streets of New York City, you’ll write a ballad for a junkie passed out on the street corner. Eyes gleaming, mouth foaming and all.
The world can see you naked, Allen Ginsberg,
But through the radio wires, telephone poles, computer grids, and high-definition television sets, America has just put on more clothes.
Still, you make Whitman hard,
Make Lorca hard,
Make Rimbaud hard,
Make Kerouac hard, though he’ll deny it
Take me home and fuck me, Allen Ginsberg.
The girl I’ve been seeing wouldn’t mind at all,
We made out after reciting one of your poems.
I will be your catamite tonight.
I hope my skin is supple,
I hope my beard is fluffy,
I hope my tongue moves freely,
I hope my hole is tight,
I hope my cock is strong,
I hope my hands move quickly,
I hope my eyes glimmer with wonder,
I hope my smile glistens with pearl,
I hope my legs don’t bind me,
I hope my arms can hold you,
I hope my heart opens to you.
Now look at the broader cosmic circle of intangible bullshit,
Doesn’t it sing to you?
Or maybe it croaks like a dying bird.
My spine is the ladder these thoughts climb up and down.
You and Grandpa Jake climb side by side; maybe you knew each other as kids in Paterson.
He was a military man, so different from you.
But he was Jewish and a few years older than you.
I make up whatever stories I like, black and white home movies of you, Jake, and Uncle Harry running up and down a hill. You showing father Louis early poetry.
The conversations you and W.C. Williams must have,
Your souls circling Paterson like a binary star, while Hart Crane’s soul lingers on Brooklyn Bridge.
I come up from Baltimore, thick with an aura of supernatural ecstasy, reciting the gibberish mantra of everything I’ve taken for granted.
We’ll have a garden, Allen Ginsberg.
We’ll grow sunflowers and Cannabis plants ‘til they tickle the skyline,
We’ll sing sun salutations in the fields as we come down off our acid trips,
We’ll shout “Viva Che!” so they can hear us all the way in Cuba,
We’ll lean out on the balcony, reflecting on the winds that blow westward,
We’ll go up to the mountain and visit Gary Snyder; we won’t come down until our beards reach our knees,
We’ll grow old together, or you can watch me grow old while looking in a mirror,
We’ll declare our independence from a world of tyrants, bullies, and liars,
We’ll scream for the release of Bradley Manning,
We’ll suck and fuck our way to enlightenment.
Old Ginsberg Death, don’t hide your bones,
The grave’s heavy wall can easily be pushed aside
Like the mist of Niagara Falls will one day settle over China,
Everything seems to be melding together.
You should be here, Allen Ginsberg,
To see the black face under the Klansman’s hood.
We elected a black man President and there’s people wanna kill him!
Say he’s a Commie,
Say he hates America
Say he reads Marx in the Lincoln bedroom at night,
Say because he’ll let all them galdurn Mexicans into the country,
Say he was born in the country of Kenya to a white momma and a black poppa,
Say,“We don’t like that here in Amurca,”
Say, “We’ll make it like the nineteen- sixties never even happened.”
Enough of this politics, Allen Ginsberg,
Take a look at the blood-drenched streets of Istanbul. Democracy! Tents! Tanks! Blankets!
If you or I became President, we’d be shot the same day as Inauguration.
You could see that through your little sliver of a left eye, magnified through your spectacles.
May I borrow some of your crazy wisdom?
My friends say I already have it,
But If I ask nicely, I figure I can get more.
I would give my life to spend a day with you, Allen Ginsberg.
We’d spend all twenty four hours mocking the idea of time.
Then, when we’d go our separate ways, and pledge to meet up somewhere in Ancient Greece,
And we’ll find the America that Whitman dreamt when Charon pulled his ferry onto the banks of Lethe.