Ginsberg Rising

…like the flowering poverty every boy feels

Allen loved to find himself in breast pockets on Broadway
On Kerouac’s neck
Behind Neal’s knee kneeling under bridges
Fire escapes against red skies and grocery store isles spying Angels in denim.

Down by the river banks where you watched them fall in, soaking in the light of Blakes heaven or Walts beard.

Traces of silver and matzos in his jazz infused blood

Without him there be no Pomes recorded in my alley way heart, in our street junk dumpster bookstore therapy.

Give thanks to his love of the penis for without it all the full bellied Buddhas of verse masquerading as low bottom drunk train hopping Saints would only be dreamers roaming in graveyards.