Yesterday I read some poetry by Allen Ginsburg’s lover, and it had a lot of misspellings. I embrace that given the fact that I don’t spell well; actually, I spell just fine at a fourth grade level! I am not sure incorrect spelling takes anything away from the poem, so here it is:
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I picture him insolent, insurrectionist
riding an ATV
driving a tractor
sunburned by Midwestern sun.
They used him unstable, uniformed
shooting hot bullets
bobbling inside a helicopter
driving a Humvee
leathered by new desert heat.
Once he asked in jest to break
up the Church instruction:
Where do babies come from?
I should have answered
in seriousness: Nathan,
we should be asking where do they go?
I remember him tall, lanky
wearing tight, cowboy jeans
shoveling snow for old women
buying two-liters of soda
instructing others on monetary conservation.
They turned him thick, manly
ensconced in Marine blues
touting an agenda of hate
pushing a deadly rhetoric
teaching others to fear our bad decisions.