Today.
Read like the last poem ever written by
ginsberg.
It read.
Nostalgia.
Of a lost love for life.
It read.
Critical as the final dying etchings that he made into that paper.
The final breaths of words given that morning,
made me cry the first time
I read them.
this time.
The words smelled
of
malls
,
girl juice.

There's a baby in his belly.
There is hemorrhage in his tone.
There are one million paired eyes scanning
bedsores in his last poem.

He took everything to the end of his life with him.
No one packed his suitcase.
He simply jumped out of his frail
body.

He probably managed last words with
something
prophetic.

****
and
Endless.
*****.