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

THOMAS R. PETERS, Jr.

“Ay Que Sarandos Mas Profundos!”

––Pablo Neruda

this interesting little planet

moving slowly around every moment

is like the silver pie display at the hotel restaurant,

with the urgency of motorcyclists

it move ferociously away from death,

twirling its mustache,

with forests rapidly

swaying around.

Today is the last day

of man, this murderous arena,

with no corners to hide in,

no time for nothing,

creating insular little colonies,

where all music disappears

locked behind cement walls

“So, what are you going to do about it,”

prisoners of sin

like cruel parades through Detroit

for the numberless dead

passing on the old rumor

like the fish descending

on the city in my dream,

(where every hello is a sin

amongst the bucolic protestants

on the humid expressway.)