Yowl-A Tribute to Allen Ginsberg’s Howl

Photo Provided by Google Images 

By Destiny Lugardo

I saw artistes, once lingering by poolside recliners, now

obliterated, ostracized, and agonized by persistent tragedies

who stretched out to the threshold of the bed—

waiting for amnesty and Two thousand words

who succumbed by sturdy contrast to the misunderstandings of Zen meditation

who became an investigator and drank cold skotch in a pub outside of Glasgow

who painted and pondered methods for dealing with Jesus in a face-down position

who studied Frida Kahlo’s accident until she forgot how to nervously sip wine

who dreamed of enjoying adult commonplace typewritten workdays

who were Catholic and gay at a fancy private high school in upstate New York

who drank ink and spat out hieroglyphics

who spoke the languages of sweet human and hummingbirds

who owned giant candlesticks, only to see birth, marriage, hardship, and Shakespeare

who became rich and popular in Chicago

who dreaded reaching peak weight by middle age

who gradually grew mentally quieter while working as a seamstress turned waitress

who were baptized by a senile love

who dreamt of wedding days by trembling grasslands

who made love shamefully to a spy from the First World War

who became a widow after twenty minutes

who disappeared afterwards and began to dress for the taxi cab driver

who had money and spent it all on dirty magazines

who drank their second cup of coffee at dinner with their lazy eyed boss

who loved their job as a busser and left after the panic in January

who dared to make graffiti by the homes of society’s affluent

who lost their childhood libraries to the liberties promised after war

who waited every night for the homemade ice cream to melt and for the watchman to regain consciousness

who disguised themselves as fog creeping above the harbor’s lighthouse

who adored the divine simplicity of the queer monuments of the empires

who quietly aged below grandmother’s cedar tree

who became awfully happy when they found love in the crowded market of the old village

who had a passion for beautiful hair and divine photographs

who slept along a pavement of flames

whose glasses stopped working because of age

who stopped drinking tea and sold the kettle and the farm

who finished their last novel on forgotten war crimes and toasted the endings into the ashtray

who were delivered by mail to Dover, Delaware and left to die as a broken, expressionless lantern forgotten in the sky.

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