Ye Ole Holy Ginsberg walked Milvia street
Under this same, vast blue skied umbrella
Heartbroken by the same city block dominoes
Avoiding eye contact with the school boys,
Thinking nostalgically of past lovers during youth.
Could he have listened in on
The homeless whole-heartedly swearing aloud
To no one but themselves
To see if they said his thoughts?
We share dirty pavements, dirty minds.
The man is dead, he is not anywhere anymore
No revolution came, can barely whisper about it on the streets
This land is all marked up, I can't find earth
Just Capital and Labor, Garbage and Sex
But nothing I don't want these things.
So, I walk Milvia street
Under the vast blue skied umbrella
Heartbroken by the same city block dominoes
Avoiding eye contact with the school boys,
Thinking nostalgically of past lovers during youth.
In a getaway, I found Ginsberg's steps, "primitive" heartache.
If there is no wild, where to stumble then?
Into bed for pillow talk preaching 'bout Lenin, Vanzetti, South Central LA?
Ignite the population explosion with a two-child match and dashing husband?
What path to pinpoint down and scuff up with bottoms of feet?
Universe is a road map! Must be a road map!
Don't let us be wrong about this one now
Revolutions written down on paper spells: F O L L Y!
Absent-minded postindustrial fuck talks circles
Figure 8's for the deep-pockets
Straight lines to hell for the radicals!
There is no wild left for hiding
Only a bronze plaque is left by bureaucrats
At his cottage to say he once was here
Like C-dawg and a sharpie in a bathroom stall
But fancy
But fancy
