The grave was not empty, the gates were not closed,
the Catholics were quite, the Jews were disposed;
The trains were not running; the planes kept apace
But all the folks here were not saying grace...
Breakfast was ready, a diet of worms,
boogers and demons and insects and germs...
Allen was not really saying that much:
his epitaphs whispered through ashes and dust.
Saturday AM, Newark New Jersey
How appropriate that I turned to this very page, from the wet, soggy copy of his poems that someone had left at his grave.
it is something for a ginsberg fan like me to be able to see such picture.
Thanks
Posted by: akhu | June 30, 2009 at 02:43 PM