St Marks

It'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.