Poetry

     Ginsberg, Kerouac, Whitman

understood the importance of poetry,

words from a good universe that make the world

admit a secret: that the best way to live

is to grab hold of life

and not let go,

to love

and not be ashamed,

to write from the universal soul

     for what hides in the universe is verse.

Everyone thinks

    that not everything

can be fantastic

     but the secret is

that Everything is

     Kerouac wrote,

'no time for poetry

but exactly what is”

     the truth is that everything is poetry:

tying your shoes to go to school

a cool breeze on a too sunny day

a lover's warm thigh

the stars,

that remind me that we all have

something in common

     Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on your cheek
     not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear

     not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least,
     not a reason to wake up tomorrow?  

Small

This poem
       so small
hurriedly scribbled
   in a pocket notebook
can it mean anything
        in this infinite universe?

Bellows

Loneliness bellows
Sadness screams
      to be heard
and how could one not hear it
as it yells from the balcony
beckoning for
         love
that will never come.
How harsh it's voice
that scrapes the mind
and kills the hopes
found inside

Ginsberg

If I die tomorrow
at least I have this moment:
    cold water
as if from a mountain stream
(really from a soda fountain) and
yellow light illuminating Ginsberg
who sits beside me
and says "live"

Totured

I don't want to be a tortured writer
I just want to write.
If it kills me
That's the art

No time

No time for poetry
but exactly what is?
Is the earth not poetry?
The wind on yr cheek
not the meaning of existence?
The music you hear not the voice of god?
This love, at the very least, not
a reason to wake up tomorrow?