Run-On
For Ginsberg

For you I have no flowers,
dead or otherwise, simply
words scribbled on a paper
in the dead of the night when
those hyped up on speed
have crashed and burned but
the students of college are
still up, awake and staring
at booze at breasts at books
and me one of them, awake
and scratching like a chicken does
across a tattered paper scrap,
words, to you I scribble words
to let you know that your
beat is still felt in the
fickle heart of America, it
still pumps and reverberates,
picking up followers and dropping
off others like a bus whose
destination is enlightenment,
heaven, hell, with demons, angels
lovers, haters, saints, sinners,
me among them on the road
to them, following, leading
following your lead and yet
for you I have no flowers
no spiky ugly flowers,
not flowers of the world,
just this poem
words scribbled on a page.

December 5, 2002