My Howl is My Prayer

An incantation for Allen Ginsberg

The moon before the Ginsberg morning.
Negro skies before a christian dawn
My voice itches for cigarettes and Tibetan hymns.
I want the circuit of Blake, Whitman, Ginsberg and Dylan
To course through my limbs

Electrocuting my fears and lame desires for acceptance.
I want to feel holier than a cantor
Or a Muslim call to prayer.
I want fuzzy peaches where my balls are
And a giant fist of a cock thrusting upwards

Between my legs I will
infiltrate the dreams of daytime sleepwalkers
With hummingbird vibrations
Of sound, soul and spirit.

I will wait to grab a discount Lyft
Neal will be at the crazy wheel
And no fucking GPS
For Moloch to deviate our destination
From paradise
To damnation.

February 9, 2025 | Categories: Americana, art, beat, bigotry, Censorship, death, Depression, Emptyness, Existentialism, literature, Meaning of Existence, Meditations, mental health, Mindfulness, new poetry, poetry, Poetry as therapy, politics, Puritanism, Self-Therapy, spoken word, Zen | Tags: Allen Ginsberg, Beat Poetry, Neal Cassidy | Leave a comment