No Miss Lonelyhearts and no Mister Right,
we are stuck at the volta, fighting void,
the best minds in generations destroyed,
Peaches and penumbras don’t scatter light.
We are peaches, all ripe with poems airtight
in our lungs to expunge, hearts not decoyed
we sing our songs, make words more humanoid
more than our human bones, thoughts taking flight…
We are all flowers with roots to ground deep
whether it’s in sand, cast stone, or graveside,
it matters not, make matter of the reap.
Consider, you are strong against the tide,
face unangelic America, keep
remembering madness is not to hide.
In remembrance of Allan Ginsberg, as his birthday is soon approaching…