When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America Allen Ginsberg
Toronto, it starts with a crack but ends with a crisp, swift, trashcan rant—
as the sky, stark black, sprinkled with white emanations of glow
vibrates and has no room for me— look forward, it says, to see flashing lights—
flashing at the speed of light, I dump dizzy in a park-like alleyway bench.
(Another Friday night, another chance to catch neon plastic boogie woogies).
The park bench I choose is conveniently located in the shade,
under the highest apple tree in the park and I am covered in leaf blooms.
This scene, consuming with its brief utterances, is too serious.
Quick to my feet, so quick I forget to check my head, I wade.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
Toronto, stumbling on I see upside down rabbits and dead chickens,
who see taxicabs floating by, and seizure inducing lights on gray skyscrapers.
Awe struck dumb struck I am stuck staring up to shadowing buildings,
and the city is blinking quick like whip lash in Waverly cheap hotel suites.
Though my pockets are deep, that is only because they have no net,
good-will duped me and I pounce cat swift two computer fat men with muddle,
my muddle: ma-ma ma-moo. Reaching deep in their pockets I find glossy gold
chains with immense quartz clear crystal white, so I am secure, but
as I move forward I hear faint cries, it is my stomach’s grumble.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
On Spadina and College I find a nice brown box high fortress.
The swerving wind’s chill curves around my arch and
my bum takes seat on the granite asphalt angels of night.
With my hat on angel bums I lay with eyes half open as
two gold coins cut swiftly through the air of my pubic beard,
when they strike the concrete I am half-earnestly called boss.
the mere thought, what pathetic forced illusion my mind sparks
as a bakers dozen of coins fall towards me and strike the concrete and
scruffy passers-by pass me by while I rise to preach of a lark—
You should have seen me reading Marx.
Drunk out of my slumber I wake to the promise flowerpots convey,
only this Saturday morning it is cold and I left my coat at home:
the three wheeled shopping cart that holds hundreds of ten-cent cylinders,
a half empty bottle of gin and crissened napkins: home. Thinking two gold coins,
my two gold coins were stolen in my sleep by a high haired ape like man,
he probably needs them more than me. What I need are lamentations,
remembering things forgot, but I can’t afford a Mac to clean myself up
and I don’t even have a telephone bill to prove I am legitimate—
thinned my gin. The only things left are my rye sensations,
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.