To be featured in the 1455 Literary Young Poets Anthology spring 2026
Allen Ginsberg, I've been thinking about you
at the market. I’ve been working for hours and this
heart of romaine has started to look like your hair.
Hunger in my stomach makes me feel empty of
cock balls. Those things you can’t name
a son after the way you can name him Jessore,
Crybaby, Howl. The way you can fill him with glasses
of milk. The way you could walk him gently down
the aisle. The way you love him like Walt Whitman,
the way you keep him in the pocket like a small
poetry collection.
Allen Ginsberg, I’ve been singing your songs
of boredom. I’ve been betting on the war of
the new America, the sensory overload. America,
America, the machinery is more artificial. Ginsberg,
Ginsberg, there are less markets full of poets and more
nametags with pseudonyms. There are less places to
smoke marajuana, less wine drunk rooftops. Between
cooking oil and soda Allen Ginsberg,
you stand with your coat propped open, kind and
gently waiting.
Allen Ginsberg, I wonder what you are asking of the
punk dyke princess dulled by the navy wash of
the uniform, kept secret by long skirts and
layers of unripped tights. Allen Ginsberg, I’ve lost
my voice in answers to questions on prices of lemons,
locations of bread, or what chemicals are on the receipt
paper. Allen Ginsberg, maybe it was really the Bisphenol
that killed the blue blood. The howl had to fade to a
night of sorrow and nine o’clock bedtimes. Allen Ginsberg,
you are lost somewhere in the taste testing grapes, you are
disappearing into the cases of bottled water, you are left
behind in the mist of the produce.
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