H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
(What is poetry, if not that feel)
What is poetry, if not that feel
in the gut-pit, under October full-moon
Homo Sentimentalis, sorrowed
in ‘membrance times together w/ kindred
brothers & sisters blood ran red wine
celebrating hard in the face of underlying
all-too-soon’s of goodbye, we’d be off
to our separate visions of success, what dreamed of
cities, what San Franciscos New Yorks
but the San Fran renaissance long-gone, New York
School all junk crack & H.I.V.
& all the geographical cures never worked
cuz wherever we went we took our selves
t’was journey itself we sought, so of course
we never arrived. . .
& tonight, yes, my glass is filled
w/ the blood-red, my liver runneth over––
time, the journeying gets to be
too much, only arrival I know
these few hr.s typewrit tryna atone
for a life that’s always come sadly 2nd
to words, cuz i’ve been a decent poet
& a damnable rotten human being,
praps if I work at it I might end up
great poet & decent human being
but always in that order. . .
Cuz i’ve not always been so lovely to lovers
nor my actions friendly to friends, still
I insist I loved best I knew. . .
There’re big dues to pay, I know, only currency
I possess, is a poetry’s value
is only the worth of my life. . .
& if it’s not enough, i’m not enough,
could very well be, my greatest hope’s
for Earthly love & success could never
measure up to what I imagine
will come w/ finally an end to the violence
of spirit strung out from Earth to grave,
& w/ Death, at last
one true arrival. . .
[Originally published in NHS 1994, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs94/index.html#7.]