One of the weights of writing is all you have written already.
What appears like a springboard to others
(the shoulders of giants long ago purchased)
can seem from this side like the eyes of dead brothers,
good men all who did their part, but still.

For them it was easier surely,
their teeth ached for art not for Thursday,
but they are the flat men now,
consigned and not so sorry about it.

I am working on a song called ‘Meat for the Sinner God’.
Partly for Allen Ginsberg and partly for myself.
Allen is dead and I have a bit of a cold.
The relative significance of these two things
seems as if the measure between us
(although I’d like to think he’d be encouraging).

It goes slowly.





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