What thoughts I have of you tonight, Allen Ginsberg,
for I strode down the alleyways under the trees
howling at the full moon, just like you and N.C.

In my starving, hysterical fatigue, and window shopping,
I went into the quiet health food store, dreaming of
your naked stanzas!

What elderberries and what eclipses! Hoards of
hipsters shopping at night! Aisles full of Doc Martens!
Anarcha-feminists
in the avocados, young idealists in the tomatoes! – and you,
Jack Kerouac, what were you doing down by the sprouts?

I saw you, Allen Ginsberg, ugly, lonely, bearded
grubber, prodding plums and cherry tomatoes
and eying the dreadlocked grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Is it local? Organic? Gluten-free?
Are you my smelly Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of
Kombucha following you, and followed closely
by the FBI.

We walked down the open corridors together, in
our independent manners tasting artichokes, possessing every
frozen delicacy, and sneaking grapes into our canvas bags.

Where are we going, Allen Ginsberg? The doors
close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of your verse in
the health food store and feel silly.)

Will we stalk all night through dank alleyways?
The billboards add blackness to night, lights out in the
Victorian homes,
we'll both be lonely.

Will we amble contemplating the feigned America of love
past blue hybrids in parking garages, home to our quiet loft?

Ah, queer father, brownbeard, lonely old sage,
What America did you have when Aphaestus condemned Achaikos
to remain blood-stained for eternity?