Back to Greenwich Village

walk down the root cracked sidewalks and howl at the moon

your naked lunch is being served cold

on the potholed road to San Francisco

pull out your pocket full of poems

under the city lights and shout

you must sell all your stuff to live in your California

have you seen their supermarkets and strolled down their aisles?

nothing rhymes there

fog never rolls up in the village like dear old San Francisco nights…

But, what of dear Walt?

You know he’s watching

more than just the grocery boys

was it not he who gave birth to drunken poets and angels

to carry on the great work

the laughing heart which always

looks forward to the end

delighting

the

Gods

who

watch

wine bottles empty

and cigarettes chain smoked.

 

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