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(wrote the night when Allen Ginsberg died... take it or leave it, it's honest_



I think of what those final moments were like

for you, and what you must have seen

as you drifted away. You wrote of death, fame, many things,

you held with your last breath only a joyful scream

that was expressed in your life, and your lines,

heart-lines, waves of thought pattern sublime.


Teacher, will you return, where have you gone, will I see

you there? — and I will come to you from the grace

of the grave that can never hold you. The topography of

life, of the mind, I bring all words I can muster to this place

of pages. Raise me towards compassion, raise me divine

into your arms of instruction, towards thought pattern sublime.


Oh, in the presence of my enemies of ignorance, bless me

with the strength to carry you further, your vision,

and never betray. I will not bow down before them, I will

only record what I must from my posture and position.

God, now you are gone, but I can feel you in the transom of my spine

intoxicating inspiring enlivening me into thought pattern sublime.

What a tribute ~ I always hope for those who die to hover, so they can take in the tributes given them. Even though it's said they no longer care. A blessing that comes with death.