I want to write a poem.
I don't have any ideas worth sharing.
I do have 35 cents a canned crack in aluminum makes me forget.
I'll have to present Ginsberg.
Ginsberg always has something to say.
I sit in my room,
in 35 cent cost of memory,
in (don't ASK what's inside) pseudo-drug culture,
in gen X images,
rehearsing Ginsberg,
and there's a bug.
He's small.
And dirty.
And I'll bet that if I could smell him he'd stink like the mammoth piles of garbage TV says he lives in.
And I could kill him.
One shot.
But I don't.
He's small.
And hurt.
And trying to continue on against all costs and feet to move to the next day avoiding the right Gestapo's
PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE MOTHERF*CKER
and the Liberals'
Burn the Flag to save YOUR COUNTRY
just so that he can think with or without meaning.
So they kill him.
I look back on Ginsberg.
His poems are everywhere.
I find I've written a poem
When I just wanted to present America.
