by John Clinton
VI. East Village
Bop bop bop
like a studded pogo stick
all along Charlie Parker Place
who blew jazz, who blew junk
who blew minds, all misplaced
be boppers humming summertime
There was life? was it not
just howling Holy! Holy! Holy!
in Tompkins Square Park
where old leather dogs come
to sing & play punk songs
to the new wave of hipsters
Away from everyone on a park bench
I sit & chain smoke cigarettes, curiously
watching leaves make leaps of faith
in slow motion, down from sturdy trees
as they become part of another chain
of life, where I wonder was it their choice?
Two men stoically sit in the cool
of shade, where chess is played
a plain young woman is topless
with sunglasses, seamlessly strolling
among Sunday’s Howl parade
& not an eye seems to be swayed
A canvas wall stretches around
more than half of the beat park
where artists create their masterpiece
I stood & reverently watched one
repaint his in sky blue, delicately
stroking his tangerine baby anew
Eighty six years ago
Irwin Allen Ginsberg was born
or reborn, he definitely came
more than once, inside of
a warm & bleeding womb
bearing naked gifts of the truth
There is one sketch of his mouth
wide open, like a swallowing void
where poems speak of lost time
another is an outline of black glasses
no eyes, just empty space below
an unfurling beard of rainbows
After the sun showers did glisten
there were rainbows across the sky
was that you in your present form?
later that night the moon did shine
was that you howling & illuminated?
where the truth doth resides!
