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