An Impersonation of Allen Ginsberg

Who were humbled and blinked at by the bored state guard
and his flashing disco casual fascism,

whose hair and feet and arms and endless, endless
copulation by the sad, sentimental dawns, once known,
could never be unknown,

who cried and creened and wrestled animal
against their better nature, their slipping nature,
their bar room sleaze and urinal natures

and when they fell exhausted to the bed
were too drunk to even dream,

whose tatters worn as battle dress–
the struggle brothers the struggle
must not relent O My Brothers
as the High Life tenements
rise up above the windows, dusty,
of their skulls.

Who were blessed in Slidell, who were
baptized in Plaquemines and who in the
unforgiving rapacious stew of a mosh pit
found Jesus Christ (he had long hair
and a piercing in his neck)

who carry on and on their grudges,
their homestyle mashed potatoes
and all the hate that’s fit to print
on family reunion invitation

whose eyes and flecked,
spacial tenderness was always tied to the weather,
or the beaten, gross untetherings of Hank’s

–everyone goes to Hank’s–

dying

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