A clip from my diary

Ginsberg I caught you reading my diary last night

somewhere in my dream 

between some parables of acupuncture 

raiding through the twists and wisps of 

scattered no thought pours...

And I thought a little instance of broken,

like my black bile was about to be shared

and there’s me

having written these perverse wonders

an anchored photo for a moment

but then realizing that

it was you, yes YOU!

that wrote 

“If we don’t show anyone, we’re free to write anything”

and washes of

empathetic nature of you poet

made right the possibility of two heads

knowing this 

that I’ve only lately known to be

true through streams

and vein odysseys 

all relentless. 

And so I’m casting me, the me, afar -

letting the carbon talk a while

where in this bowl of precious human birth,

where we meet beginning beginning again,

growing the changes of chances,

joking to me that I can cast me, the me, afar

any further than can be implied in waves, 

or drowning in them, 

but the then sudden wonderment 

of clean air. 

Ah, why do I let myself fester on worry,

everything’s ending, everything is changing

and growing and shrinking, 

the two people sleeping on each side of this room

are getting older and dying.

We are dying. 

The colossal conjunction of human sadness is dying,

happiness is dying,

I am dead born and you are dead born 

and we are just going to be dead again

so why would I fret over such secret words Allen?

and why punish ourselves for histories 

and why wonder about my body pains

and why cry about the scope of death

and why let impact impact at all?

So, we’ve known we are just a ring of flesh

pumping through itself 

that craves the shit of the world

in a frantic effort to embellish our windows 

and that is the booster for our 

gloomy gloomy winters

that will pass it will pass it will pass

it will pass it will pass it will pass it will pass

and this body that we are

is just the eyes of the thing we are looking at

but can’t see

the universe needs us to see itself

we are not us

we are that - that “”””around”””” -

accepting our result is not

accepting our result

because it is not our result -

is this giving up and excuse?

it is not our giving up or excuse to give up or excuse.

All we can do is not understand and

sit back and let it happen

and drink our tea or our wine with

every temporary enunciation valid

to air to the earth

the earth we know but don’t know

don’t feel, can’t feel -

insane that we are all kinds of upside down

but we are not upside down

we are everything but upside down

and our filling invisibility is all that is needed

for anything -

any idea of love or illness

to be existent though not real not real.

It is my simple cleave incision 

into the ways of the world I see

that I seek forever to understand

and more so maybe the ways

the world you see,

all reflector and reasonless,

I want to read through your eyes,

to work through your mouth, 

to vigil with your thoughts

as they pass and deliver onto

the next saving grace,

a double helix of us 

cordoning the galaxies

one at a time

on violin string theories. 

No one is immune, Allen.

How teasingly we are told this

by layer lessons

listing the malleable meanings 

of veins we wrap when wanting

and never looking to undo

until the only words to run by are 

Moon’s:

“No yesterdays on the road”.

So read my diary as you will 

while I sleep through the day or night, 

and you will learn a little river

or two before I type

and my fears will be met 

by the warranty 

of simple

dark

truths.