If Ginsberg and I were friends

By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

Ginsberg, I think of you,

holed up in my apartment, knee deep in red wine rants.

I was born to the wrong decade.

This is tragedy, always has been.

 It is obvious our tea-headed spontaneity and clear disposition for beautiful men

would have made us inseparable.

Angel-headed hipsters who danced in their underwear

at midnight rain to bluegrass confession quandaries.

Why must you buy daisies for someone else?

Your petals taste like San Francisco.

We could have published terrible taboo insights of honesty

and everyone would have loved us. Our whole entity of blunt observations.

They always loved you.

You never apologized for madness or sincerity.

I’m, I’m a mouth full of emotions, always knocking on the door, waiting for the poetry to let me in.

You. You only spit emotions in the microphone, drunk on wine and a gallery six dream.

Why wasn’t I there?

I want to be loved.

 

Loved by all you knew, you the new blue haiku.

You are more beautiful than the words that drip from the lips

of the generation you will reshape from the grave.

They will all continue to love you.

He who doesn’t,

I call a liar.

Your wisdom came from an uncomfortably

bought at the price of being yourself.

They always loved you.

Even Jack.

Especially jack.

This is the only part of me that is jealous of you, dear friend.

Did you love his torture as much as me?

Did you swim in those eyes of puppy dog protest?

Or in an incurable lonely sadness that you thought if

you danced with it, just once; it might light the room of the abandoned heart hotel.

Allen, you make the law degrees howl at the moon wishing someone

understood them, the way you understand life.

And love.

A million fuck yous on your lips you were never scared to say.

They make them strong in New Jersey,

Lonely, but strong.