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
CHRIS IDE
(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. . .
10/11/92
[Originally
published in NHS 1994, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs94/index.html#7.]