O dear sweet rosy           unattainable desire     . .how sad, no way           to change the mad      cultivated asphodel, the           visible reality. .      and skin's appalling           petals- how inspired      to be so Iying in the living           room drunk naked      and dreaming, in the absence           of electricity. .      over and over eating the low root           of the asphodel,      gray fate. .           rolling in generation      on the flowery couch           as on a bank in Arden —      my only rose tonite's the treat           of my own nudity.

     The weight of the world           is love.      Under the burden           of solitude,      under the burden           of dissatisfaction           the weight,      the weight we carry           is love.      Who can deny?           In dreams      it touches           the body,      in thought           constructs      a miracle,           in imagination      anguishes           till born      in human —      looks out of the heart           burning with purity —      for the burden of life           is love,      but we carry the weight           wearily,      and so must rest      in the arms of love           at last,      must rest in the arms           of love.      No rest           without love,      no sleep           without dreams      of love —           be mad or chill      obsessed with angels           or machines,      the final wish           is love      — cannot be bitter,           cannot deny,      cannot withhold           if denied:      the weight is too heavy           — must give      for no return           as thought      is given           in solitude      in all the excellence           of its excess.      The warm bodies           shine together      in the darkness,           the hand moves      to the center           of the flesh,      the skin trembles           in happiness      and the soul comes           joyful to the eye —      yes, yes,           that's what      I wanted,           I always wanted,      I always wanted,           to return      to the body           where I was born.

     Drinking my tea Without sugar —      No difference. The sparrow shits      upside down — ah! my brain & eggs Mayan head in a Pacific driftwood bole — Someday I'll live in N.Y. Looking over my shoulder my behind was covered with cherry blossoms.  Winter Haiku I didn't know the names of the flowers-now my garden is gone. I slapped the mosquito and missed. What made me do that? Reading haiku I am unhappy, longing for the Nameless. A frog floating in the drugstore jar: summer rain on grey pavements. On the porch in my shorts; auto lights in the rain. Another year has past-the world is no different. The first thing I looked for in my old garden was The Cherry Tree. My old desk: the first thing I looked for in my house. My early journal: the first thing I found in my old desk. My mother's ghost: the first thing I found in the living room. I quit shaving but the eyes that glanced at me remained in the mirror. The madman emerges from the movies: the street at lunchtime. Cities of boys are in their graves, and in this town… Lying on my side in the void: the breath in my nose. On the fifteenth floor the dog chews a bone- Screech of taxicabs. A hardon in New York, a boy in San Fransisco. The moon over the roof, worms in the garden. I rent this house.

Last nite I dreamed  of T.S.  Eliot welcoming me to the land of dream  Sofas couches fog  in England  Tea  in his  digs Chelsea rainbows  curtains on his windows, fog seeping in the chimney but a nice warm house and an  incredibly sweet hooknosed  Eliot he loved me,  put me up, gave me a couch to sleep on, conversed kindly, took me serious asked my opinion on Mayakovsky I  read him Corso Creeley Kerouac advised Burroughs Olson Huncke the bearded lady in the Zoo,  the intelligent puma in  Mexico  City 6 chorus boys  from Zanzibar who chanted in wornout  polygot Swahili,  and the  rippling rhythms of Ma Rainey and  Rachel  Lindsay. On  the  Isle  of  the Queen  we had a  long evening's conversation  Then  he tucked me in  my long  red underwear  under a  silken blanket by the fire on the sofa gave me English dottle and went off sadly to his bed, Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad to have met a fine young man like you. At last,  I  woke  ashamed of myself.  Is he  that good and kind? Am  I that great? What's my motive  dreaming  his manna? What  English Department would that impress? What failure to be perfect prophet's made up here? I  dream of my kindness to T.S. Eliot wanting  to be a historical  poet and share in his finance of Imagery- overambitious dream of eccentric boy. God forbid my evil dreams come true. Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg. T.S. Eliot would've been ashamed of me.

a lot of mouths and cocks, under the world there's a lot of come, and  a lot of  saliva  dripping into  brooks, There's a lot of  Shit  under  the world, flowing beneath cities into rivers, a lot of urine floating under the world, a lot  of snot in the world's  industrial nostrils, sweat under world's iron arm, blood gushing out of  the world's breast, endless lakes  of tears, seas of sick vomit rushing between the hemispheres floating towards Sargasso, old oily  rags and brake fluids, human gasoline- Under the world there's  pain, fractured  thighs, napalm burning in black hair, phosphorus eating elbows to bone  insectiside  contaminating oceantide, plastic  dolls  floating  across Atlantic, Toy soldiers crowding the Pacific, B-52 bombers choking jungle air  with vaportrails and brilliant flares Robot drones careening over rice terraces dropping cluster grenades,  plastic pellets spray into flesh, dragontooth mines & jellied fires  fall on  straw roofs and water  buffalos, perforating  village huts  with  barbed  shrapnel,  trenchpits  filled  with fuel-gas-poisen'd explosive powders- Under the world there's broken skulls, crushed feet, cut eyeballs,  severed fingers, slashed jaws, Dysentry, homeless millions, tortured hearts, empty souls. We Rise On Sun Beams And Fall In The Night Dawn's orb orange-raw shining over Palisades bare  crowded branches bush  up from marshes- New Jersey with my father riding automobile highway to Newark Airport- Empire State's spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan rising as  in W.  C. Williams'  eyes  between  wire  trestles- trucks  sixwheeled  steady rolling overpass  beside New York- I am here tiny under sun rising  in vast white sky, staring thru skeleton new buildings, with pen in hand awake…

Whom bomb?  We bomb them! Whom bomb? We  bomb them! Whom bomb? We bomb them! Whom bomb? We bomb them! Whom bomb? You bomb you!  Whom bomb? You bomb you! Whom bomb? You  bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you! What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do? You  bomb! You bomb them!  What do we  do? You bomb! You bomb them! What do we  do? We bomb! We bomb them! What do we do? We bomb! We bomb them! Whom  bomb? We  bomb you! Whom bomb? We  bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb  you! Whom bomb? You bomb you!

At  66,  just learning how  to take care of my body  Wake cheerful 8 a.m.  & write in a notebook rising from my bed side naked leaving a naked boy asleep by  the  wall  mix miso  mushroom leeks  &  winter  squash  breakfast, Check bloodsugar, clean teeth  exactly, brush, toothpick, floss, mouthwash oil  my feet,  put on white shirt white  pants white sox sit solitary by the sink  a moment before brushing my hair, happy not yet to be a corpse.

When I die I don't care what happens to my body throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery But l want a big funeral St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  St.  Mark's  Church,  the  largest synagogue  in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren, companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan — Next,  teacher Trungpa  Vajracharya's  ghost  mind,  Gelek  Rinpoche,  there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms Baker, Whalen, Daido  Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchen — — Then, most important, lovers over half-century Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories "He taught  me  to meditate,  now  I'm an  old  veteran of the  thousand day retreat — " "I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me" "I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone" "We'd lie  under covers gossip, read my  poetry, hug & kiss  belly to  belly arms round each other" "I'd  always get  into his bed  with underwear on  &  by morning my skivvies would be on the floor" "Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master" "We'd talk all night about Kerouac  & Cassady  sit Buddhalike then  sleep in his captain's bed." "He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy" "I  was lonely never in  bed  nude with anyone  before, he  was so gentle my stomach shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips- " "All  I  did was lay back  eyes closed,  he'd bring me to come  with mouth & fingers along my waist" "He gave great head" So there be  gossip  from  loves of 1948, ghost of  Neal Cassady commingling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997 and surprise — "You too? But I thought you were straight!" "I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me." "I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head, my forehead throat heart  &  solar plexus, mid-belly. on my  prick,  tickled with his tongue my behind" "l loved the way he'd  recite  'But at my back allways  hear/ time's  winged chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow — " Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear "I  studied  his  poetry  class, 17 year-old kid,  ran some errands  to  his walk-up flat, seduced me didn't  want to, made  me  come,  went home, never saw  him again never wanted to… " "He  couldn't  get it up but  loved me,"  "A clean old man." "He made sure I came first" This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor — Then poets  & musicians — college boys'  grunge bands — age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical conductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trumpeters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin autoharp pennywhistles & kazoos Next, artist Italian romantic  realists schooled in mystic 60's  India, Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classicdraftsman Massachusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces Then highschool  teachers, lonely Irish  librarians,  delicate bibliophiles, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex "I met him dozens of times  he never  remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist" "Nervous  breakdown after menopause,  his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals" "Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a week in Budapest" Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois" "I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet- " "He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City" "Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City" "Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982" "I read what  he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others  like me out there" Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photography aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral Super-fans,  poetasters,  aging Beatnicks  &  Deadheads,  autograph-hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive