Drugs & Lumber

With my insides in and my spine out.

So you could see my name and what I'm about.

Cramped between an old German Sweed and a middle aged. Australian mother of two.

They both have a lot to say. I feel welcome in their crew.

I checked in on old Ginsberg, my fellow, my countryman, my dude.

He was doing good.

I flipped him open to 894.

There was my name.

In a poem about a night on his front porch.

Like he was saying hello.

I passed by King on the way.

Nobody's got more to say than him.

Poor bastard has no one left.

All alone on a shelf.

All his own.

Blathering to himself.

King of the shelf.

They almost kicked Burgess out.

They just have the one you expect.

That's the one he hates.

Burroughs nextdoor was looking thin.

I wouldn't worry, he never really fit in.

He'd be happy to be gray with dust,

Green with mold, wrinkled and wet,

Rotting and old, perched on a broken record player.

In a dying antique store.

I met someone my age.

Frankly she's doing much better than me.

She keeps it short and tough and bittersweet.

I liked her so much I brought her home with me.

But she's in LA and I doubt we'll ever speak.

I saw cross-legged young lovers on the floor.

Hanging out talking poetry.

Leaning close and bumping knees.

Low by the shelf just like young me.

Except there was no one for me to talk to.

Probably there could've been.

But I only had eyes for you.

I went where they'd put me.