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
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
new windsor, ny
may 14, 2006