there are so many places to hide,
in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,
at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle soda reading chapters at my leisure,
in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust presiding benevolent,
in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle juice kegstand coke politic networking,
at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,
in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,
at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,
at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the smoking cement blooming,
at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the groan of meditation,
at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,
at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and chocolate and tea,
at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat leather hoping to salvage something insane,
in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine
men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,
at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,
at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,
at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled hole-in-the-skull intonations,
at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,
in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,
at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,
in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,
in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,
at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my revenge,
in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,
in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for asylum,
in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray bullet shuffles six years later,
in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,
in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,
in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found
in Philadelphia
My best Ginsberg impression.
