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I'm feeling Poetry again
  words racing back and forth purposefully
   but directionless, the net of so many electric signals
 in telephone wires or satellites or synapse.
I remember the energy now, its in my blood
   and ink, scattered on pages of books
    left unread by the pages of Muses and
the cry of desire. My hand scrabbles under
   my bed, looking without eyes for
 blank books among the printed, flashlights, dust, 
a broken pencil, an empty fountain pen, finally
 a ballpoint goes to work. 

II.
Everything is Allen Ginsberg's fault, and 
Kerouac's and Columbia's, and this great
machinery's ( to which my sight has been restored
once again- the lurid electricity
of the New York explosion jungle music
earthquake to which my feet have never touched)

III.
Desire is the fount of all emotions, the Father
and weaver and sculptor of all others-
we stop wanting what we have but never
stop missing what we lose or what 
might have been

IV. 
I'm laying on the bed where I presume I was conceived
some 18 years ago
 2 hours ago, Howl in my hand and eyes and mind, falling asleep with the complicated
exhaustion of hearing the truth a second time
and this time understanding so much more  (this time,
this time I know, as I know 5 years from now I will know 
I knew nothing) already now his words and my words and
Beckett's and Peter's and Frost's and e.e.'s words,
and Carnegie's, Marx's, 4 dozen university
marketing representatives' mix together, clash and
fall into place- interference patterns
on the water and the paper
create the scribbled tangle of lines and ideas
you see before you.

V. 
Already I'm changed to something I never 
was, will never be again, I switch pens
and pick up the crying frantic
crazy of the Beat generation, now 
grown old and running antique shops and crying-
The desperation of throwing the words
half-formed onto the paper, the madness
the need the desire to be
heard, be right, be beautiful be loved

VI. 
The bed is amber in the dimmed lights 
of incandescence and late afternoon-
I fall asleep not from the lull following
exertion but as a continuation of
the exhaustion that is day-to-day, 
the exhaustion that is the prospect of the endless, 
work unceasing and self-imposed
and necessary insofar as desire 
is necessary to separate the
human from the mechanical 
(full of purpose but without
direction) the cover is
infinitely soft and sweet in
its touch, a caress sensual
unreturnable meaningless maddening
Does desire unfulfilled tear a man
apart? or simply reaffirm the insanity the illogic 
necessary to a retention of
Self?

VII. 
Here pages are filled in the first notebook in reach
with the first words off of the tongue and out
of the cartridge, something long and nonsensical
to be shredded to the brink of genius some time
after midnight and shredded back to rubbish 
when sense and sun come up