if I were Allen Ginsberg
my poem would be called “meow”

I would be the
new Charles Bukowski
drunk on wine gums
smoking chocolate cigarettes
no argot to speak of
at your bar
sticking out like
a sore thumb (got
to get it seen to)

here I am old flamboyant Ez
stuck in a train door at the Metro
no time to condense this
chaos into two-line
epigraphs
rich with hidden
Classical resonance
or even
a Canto
(God, I wish I
could just
churn them out)

and here I am in tableaux full of
messed up emulation:
Hart Crane still afloat, Roger
McGough with a
fake Scouse accent, Possum
Eliot losing track
of his spiritual arithmetic
and Sylvia, dear Sylvia

rewriting, redefining whole new Ariel
since so inexplicably forgot
to pay the gas

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