It seems like the entire world knows
how to dance except for me.

There must be a metronome
that ticks the tempo
right out of the torso
of Mother Nature herself
but I cannot seem to tune in.
Everywhere around me
I can see a rhythm that refuses
to run through me like it somehow knows
that I am always going to be that one kid
left standing with my back against
the gym wall and the beat is just another club
that cannot afford to let any losers in.

I see the leaves—crisp hues of
yellow-bleeding-into-orange,
orange-bleeding-into-brown—
being directed by the air that they cut
as they learn to dance the American Waltz
left box, right box,
underarm turn,
hesitation step
spinning to the ground
and swell approaches the shore
carrying forward a small roar,
energy circling from deep to shallow,
waves shoaling, rising up,
moving along to the Foxtrot
feather step, three step,
natural turn,
hover cross
uncurling onto the shore.

But still, after all of these years,
I am here with shoulder blades pressed to cinderblocks
trying to tap into the meter while I tap my toe
inside of my shoe so the mountains will not shed rocks
like tears that come along with steady laughter.

What thoughts have you tonight Allen Ginsberg? For I walk down the main street
Under the streetlights with a sinking self-consciousness, looking at the blank building site.
In my quest for new experience, and shopping for clarity,
I went into the neon night dreaming of your visions!
What soul and what joy! Lovers at night! Circles sweeping the floor!
Girls shimmering and boys shaking down! Shadows shine lunar reflections!
And us- my Peter Orlovsky- What were we doing down in the corridor?

Give me your thoughts, Allen Ginsberg, dancing, new dreamlike words,
Sprawling among the leaves of my mind and speaking to the night.
I was asking questions: Can we go to the bar? What can I do? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of bright lights and vibrations, followed by you and following
Brilliant waves of imagination.
We were down in the open corridor together, in our solitary harmony, tasting your lips,
Which possessed ecstasy, and watching passersby. They all say we’ve got it.

Where am I going, Allen Ginsberg? The doors closed at daybreak. Would your writer’s
Hand have pointed us towards the black taxi tonight?  
(I think of my dreams and jumpy visions of you at the Moor and feel foolish.)
But held in your arms, asleep, a lighter direction. The trees are coloured
In green, the pale blue sky heavy, streets solitary.
I wake with you, dreaming of this love, whispers under the covers, forgotten whimsies.
Ah, poor Beat poet, bearded, lonely now forever, scattered in my brain like stars.
What poetry is this? Smoke curling upwards towards the construction site staring back.

Love is breathe upon my heart,Its a feeling ever
whispering on ever beat of our affection.

I could be blind but see the beauty you caress on
my being, a vision with no need for sight to be seen.

Our love is music that is flawless in the strokes of
each beat, a tear descends as harmony is felt in each of us.

I wanted the dark the afterglow needed,
but that night caught me unawares,
with its black skin
letting go of distances,
showing a heart that knows
the words and the untold,
the sounds can’t be but felt
I could get and save a little beat…

Wit, flair, games played going all out,
talent lit up the eyes of time
because free to be,
fond of listening and give,
homesick and adventurous
bowing to beauty and loneliness,
but art that sweetness,
strength came out of fears.

The afterglow wanted me
to need the dark... and a star.

Eyes,
Are you gleaming,
Knowing you'll never see him again?

Lips,
Are you smiling,
Knowing I will find someone better?

Heart,
Are you dancing?
Beating again..
After all those times
you've been grounded?

Brain,
Are you with me?
Are you sure you want to hear his question?
Are you sure you're being reasonable this time?

Because I don't want to make the same mistake.
I know,
You did it for the lessons..

But he would never give,
And would only take.

And I'm now sick of anyone's game;
Because it has been too long
And it's getting ****** lame.

Back to when I was so sad, and still am,
Reflecting on Mexico City Blues,
Making time for love and feeling sinful,
Seeing the world turn, and spring coming into view,
Feeling left out when it was the women of my fantasies who were consequential,
Diving into the Ohio River to clear my sinuses and finding only pollution.

Well, the solitude is getting deeper and heavier.

Can't get a **** cheap, meaningless rendezvous, but I know how true dishonest devotion can feel,

And I'm sending in a request for no one's solace or sympathy tonight.

I feel your sermon of restless ambition, I can smell your beer soaked soul, in its elemental glory, on my collar.

Jack Kerouac, in his 94th year, is still bustling and full of life in the retinas of poets and dreamers,

And I won't sell you short,
You're keeping me afloat.