A poem for Allen Ginsberg

Lo and behold, the poet untold,
grown old, has the legend finally gone
senile?

His purpose outlived, best minds
acknowledged and passed by,
something left behind &
impossible to live down,
chasing after youths nubile.

Trailblazer to giants,
A shoulder to the quarterback
the other to the minstrel,
and your back to the wild.

Hipsters-youngsters dashing off
for freedom, taking off their
clothes and plunging into acid
to swim the mile.

But what happens when that race
is won and the finish line met
with? Was it all in the end
worthwhile?

What little I know of you,
from your tiny little crammed
scribbling , and gelatin silver
printing (so famous later on),
I`d like to think you
never really lost your style.

Thus in the fadeaway of your howling
I mourn in guile,

In the dying out of your dharma
I revile,

In the burning of your Whitman and
Rimbaud, a funeral pyre,

And maybe in the end all
remembrance is futile.

Allen bubala baby when you
shaved off your beard you were
unrecognizable in profile...

Daylight savings time resumed at 2 A.M. today, 1997,
gone gone gone until another day.

A poem with no title

He ponders the relevancy of payphones,

and of all the things he currently owns.

She pays heed to the sound of her own moans,

as they echo from within the hollow valleys

of her cheekbones.




He struts his stuff like a dilettante

and she behaves like a debutante, with

her hair cut real short, like that of

a flapper.

He disposes of an empty candy bar

wrapper.




She ponders the stringency of old zen koans,

and compares it to killing a bird with two stones.

He's been staring at the ceiling, he's all alone,

thinking clocks should mark time not in hours

but in aeons.




Still, she struts her stuff like a debutante,

while he behaves like a dilettante, event

hough in the robes of a king he passes as

a beggar.

She closes the shutters against foul

weather.