I would like to sing to you Allen and let my soul/self wail, undisciplined
endowed with my joys and miseries and lusts.
To sing of those that I love and those that love me
(yes, I can admit now that I am loved)
of my experiences with Whitman and the trials of relying on his
old, grey, crumbled beard-compass
of hearing your strangled howl and crying alone in my bed
contemplating the abuses of Carl Solomon
of Chicago and Jersalem and Paris and Barcelona and Athens
and S.L.'s Zurich and D.W.'s China and P. L's New York and L.A.
and the imaginary Manhattan cesspool Mecca
of the melting brains of the world and the receding morality coastlines
and the disappearing common sense polar bears
of this and that, ad nauseam, et cetera et cetera, so on and so forth...
I would like to sing to you Allen, to know you and be known by you
without boundary or fear and for this to be a celebration
because you made me Holy! and when I swalloed Holiness it came out my eyes
and ears and nose and pen
and I could pass it on with a kiss and so I kissed
ALL the boys and ALL the girls!
and they were Holy!, too.
O Allen! O Soul! O Holiness! hear my song
and know me.
Chicago October 2010
