Perched on a ladder

leaning up against

the side of your house,

you're 60 years old

and in good health

until you lose your balance,

that is,

toppling headlong

into the pale blue sky

of an empty swimming pool.

Unfortunately

there are no judges around

to rate your dive.

I give it a 10.

Your form,

under the circumstances,

was magnificent.

 

                       

Seeing my sweatshirt coated

in cat hair,

you tell me

I need

to be vacuumed.
 

 

Give me a break.

Give me a chance.

Give me some hope.

Give me some rope to hang myself with.

Give me a decent line of poetry.

Give me some chocolate &

              maybe I won't poison your dog.

Give me a decent martini &

              maybe I'll reveal my secrets.

(Give me your secrets first, though.)

Give me that old-time religion.

On second thought, don't you dare.

Give me a gun so I can shoot

the next born-again Christian - or cliché -

              I see comin' 'round the bend.

Whoa - there goes another one - a cliché,

              I mean.

Give me an Uzi instead.

 

 

I'm nobody. Who

are you? And why do we have

to share a locker?

 

 

Exactly 50 years

(and two days)

after you read Howl

in public for the first time,

I step into City Lights

and fight the urge to genuflect.

 

Allen,

I am not worthy to be here,

but only say the word

and I shall be healed.

 

And what is the word, Allen?

Give us the good word.

We're all dying down here,

trying to write.