I. Thoughts

I thought of you today, Allen Ginsberg,
As I often do when the howls from
Desolation Row enrapture my mind.
Rapid fired images stolen from
Dreams and nightmares of America.
Starving in the streets like
Hysterical angel headed hipsters
And raggedy vagabond doctors
Crouched in darkened doorways
Snarling, scratching at the
Constable’s carriage for
A scrap of bread.

Out the door to the platform
Just waiting for a train
Tug down on my hat brim
To shield my eyes from the rain

No tears this time
I just can’t stay still
Nothing to tie me down,
Guess I’ve just had my fill

I’ve got souvenirs from places
I ain’t never been
Every year I confess
Even if I didn’t commit the sin