I feel kindred with Ginsberg
And his metaphysical urge for uncreated worlds of bliss
While the real thing spins around me
And I play with my mind and its too-many axes to grind
In self-grievance for not sharpening my dull shape
Into secrets of which the living poets are born to speak.
Filtering through thoughts as space through time,
I skip towns and fly over cities and make for hilly meadows
Mottled with Whitmanesque procreancies,
Flowery poesies and other fading fruits
Of a desert mirage and its barren inconstancies
While new seasons change into more poor rhymes
And even less reason.