In the ultimate tribute to a great poet,
I am going to make it with Allen Ginsberg,
he will be the first man I have ever diddled,
so don't be surprised if nobody comes.
This bang ensures my passage not only
into the venue of Allen's cosmic love,
but also into leftist journals and gay porn mags.
Margins across America bend and I hop across,
Hellman's in hand, since a large straight white
male
normally gets it on with the following ingredients
only:
soybean oil, whole eggs, vinegar, water, egg
yolks,
salt, sugar, lemon Juice, natural flavors,
and calcium disodium to protect flavors that tend
to merge if left alone to simmer together in the
pot,
the spices getting it on with juices and the oils
helping everybody flop, even the eggs.
Allen is probably humping Jerry Garcia
right now in the vast Buddhist nil,
worlds colliding and not just metaphorically,
Jerry wanting to dick and boink, to scrog and
strap and Ball,
and Allen mounting, riding, humping, creaming,
getting off and making the scene,
but I'm not jealous, I have grown large‑hearted
in your death, Allen, like the simpering nephew.
Allen, my Allen, welcome to my authentic ritual
of universal confluence, my merging of all
disjointed
parts of a universe touched by your love.
Sober as sand, I meditate toward the whole of
things
I
can't seem to see, beyond my piece of the puzzle.
Talk
about a plot, my father worked for the CIA,
so you
can imagine how paranoid I am, who
practiced
steaming open envelopes with him, above
a shrieking kettle. He was looking for answers,
too,
but other people's answers. I won't condemn him.
He died unable to catch his breath,
not even cool enough to take the joint I held out
to him.
Allen, I pray wherever you are
you're getting it on with the best of them,
giving Dante what‑for, jumping Marvell's
bones,
lally‑gagging and getting some, because
This ain't the song that would do you wrong