for Allen, at first

for Allen,

at first,

it was just possible to see the changes:

all beard and two huge eyes,

studying the vibrating air

with soft exhales where words hoped to linger

if only for a beat

or two,

hearing of Denver

where a waitress and her sister

curried favor with the boys.

the poet thought briefly about Tangiers

before settling on San Francisco

and a ride on the belly of a friend,

sliding down the slippery streets of a dream.

inside the electric light,

it was dimmer than normal

but buzzing with anticipation.

the small toilet refused to flush

and a waste basket crowded one corner

where tissue paper was balled.

everything smelled of sex

and cigarettes burned like mad incense

until circling fingers held a glowing match

and lit the scene.

everyone gasped 

when the reading was complete,

his every enunciation a hydrogen explosion

of letters and singing exhortations.

he mentioned angels and mental illness

as a blessing

before the altar 

where a priest kissed the newborn baby with sacred lips;

he tossed scorn 

like loaves of bread

to all the heads bowed deeply in thought.

on rhythmic tongues,

a splash of red awe instead of wine.

then Buddha found the rib,

whole and filled with eternity,

and an entire generation escaped the room,

howling

like wolves on the hunt.

much later, when Jack called with the Mexico City Blues,

no one was home to answer,

although the jazzy chorus could be heard, 

written in a certain style,

awash with morphine and meaning,

waiting to be published.

And Allen did what he could.