N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  1  2






confiscation ‘56


Ginsberg you’re dead and i’ve changed.


my gears didn't work connected to Moloch as they were in the void

and shadow of Moloch a void that began with mother's womb.

how did you escape Allen from the vortex of your mother’s insanity?

your voice the chanting of a rabbi omnipotent infant your cock rough root

plunged into experience / your angels were my angels too once

but it’s all different now / no more cheap NYC walk-ups / my Brooklyn temple

of isolation beyond my pocket of rebellion against child’s hand /

my raging fix was legal advertised and condoned / lovers i hardly knew

told i loved were my connection – the MAN after all – and it led

to the proverbial rail yard not your Sunflower no to the end of the line

concrete slab where shocks of putrid fear turn to falsities – false/cities populated by

enemies of biblical proportion re-creating the holocaust

because God wasn’t dead just nowhere to be found / the institution

of my mattress served to stifle American hunger / conversations

meant to un-prove womanhood yet seduce / utterances profoundly twisted / naked in

bed with no clue how to reveal myself.


Howl released in the year of my birth / i came to love my free spirit

but fun as it was ragged clothes began to appear on sidewalks

instead of musicians and painters / needles in gutters pointed at passersby/

men unrecognizable in their suits / women lost to their own flesh / anxiety dreams:

mother reaches to back of car takes my sandwich / once sweet lover turns perpetrator of

industrial abuse on children lined up like stripped trees.


because of you ink is once again a line to cast in silence.

you say: your springs are broken! throw them out! out! off! fire escape

to find the Eternal – i’ve thrown them!

off fire escapes out of cars cried them out raged them out

and the eternal is not my goal...

i need replacements made of flesh and memory a body actually human

(and i’m working on it).


i imagine old-growth forests now

and not roofs of Broadway contemplating punk and Prokofiev

and yes you're right Allen the alarm clock does bang me on the head

every fucking morning every moment – REALITY

descends every day in my thoughts and again!

when i remember thoughts are NOT reality and again!

when i feel my body

of pain

and joy!



new windsor, ny

may 14, 2006