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Click hereIt's a ghost of a church,
the modern city buzzes
all night a street away--
tiny bagel and gyro joints,
coffee shops with neon names
and dirty plate windows,
but the church retains
it's holy remove.
When poets speak,
the room is filled
with the hush of spirit.
Ginsberg pats his Bhudda belly,
his voice rings, fighting
Kenneth Koch to the death:
Popeye meets William Blake.
Patti Smith paces, spins,
extemporizing, improvising
like lunatic Ariel on speed.
Burroughs' mouth barely moves,
but his gravelspeak pierces,
his eyes pin the audience
fallen sway to his cool
reptilian muse.
Helen Adam steals
the night and my breath
with her warbly cackle
Cheerless Junkie Song.
Their voices whirl words
around me. My aura glows
like a constellation.
I know these thoughts,
this life. I know. This
is who I am.
in so much of your work...a sense of awed inspiration. Your eye for detail and word choice is impeccable.
*no thermometers allowed in church
Wonderful celebration of your poetic roots, Angeline. I don't know anything about St. Mark's, but "It's a ghost of a church" did not strike me as as strong of an intro as this poem deserves. The conclusion very powerful-- you belong in this company.
Been there enough times that I leave my cup there, and no one else uses it.
Don't ask me why, but there were two lines that seemed out of place for me:
"but the church retains
it's holy remove."
You took me there...i can see it and hear it all.
And I was happy and ready to give you the 5 and a pat on your lyrical ass
; )
Then:
~Their voices whirl words
around me. My aura glows
like a constellation.
I know these thoughts,
this life. I know. This
is who I am.~
Bang!
You were me.
That's It Exactly!
That's how I knew too.
Beautiful strange interconnected karma
Everyday I learn something here
Thank you Ange...once again