Allen Ginsberg is Dead they did not tell the night before

I planted a sunflower

shatter'd, black

plain.

I saw you, Allen Ginsberg, in a

supermarket of status,

Phat!

Allen, what do you

remember of

us?

II.

Preaching to some chick 'bout Burroughs and Kerouac

and Mexico City for cris'sakes. This Jane sez

she like, uh, doesn't read cause there's no

remote control and like who the Hell is this guy

Kerouac anyway?

Would you understand if I explained?

III.

Back

@ Fenway we are scoreless after an inning and a half.

32 thousand on hand to watch. These stretched, far-fetched families do

not care that Allen Ginsberg is...

IV.

I hurt so sad and

I don't know

why.

Allen Ginsberg is dead, they did not tell the night before.

In the bizarre Winter of my lunacy  

In the bizarre Winter of my lunacy

I did not cry.

It was three drinks until yesterday's past

across the light of Marquee banners through

an aged door. Lonesome dull life!

A tread mate is lunacy.

When weird circumstance alters

tomorrow's waste, forgotten rubbish

collected in rusty drain pipes

like voices rotten in my head

Sour green apples drunk by the dozen

I stay tonight, I know I mustn't.

Each evening we'd play chess

on the round wooden table.

In the corner

I did not cry.

Oliver left last Sunday.

She is moving to Des Moines.

I will never travel to Des Moines!

Heat takes my breath, s

weaty forehead I rise.

Diamonds in rock glasses

liquor quickly embraces

broken-hearted tender

so I may remain sane.

In the bizarre Winter of my lunacy