ginsberg watches me from his mother’s attic window
dancing in the streets of hellfire
and queer compassionate waters.
young is there somewhere spinnin’ rhymes with cohen
while they lose their marbles
listenin’ to miller peck away
at his fornicating xylophone.
they’re all there for me
when the machinations of the malignant everyday
contradictions and inhumanities
shock me into an implosion inside myself.
i’m less likely to call out to god than call out to godot.