I nearly (almost) read a poem in Poetry
magazine. It was by Allen Ginsburg
even though he’s dead. It wouldn’t
stop. It was like being on a runaway
Soapbox Derby racer picking up speed
going slower and slower. It was just
too much, too much there, too much
theresville, man, like a waterfall of words
lumbering down Van Ness, a sloe gin
fizzle speeding like snot across Pine
and Bush, doing a loopdy-loop, a glop
of oatmeal magma down Lombard on
it went, down, down, I’d even lost
sight of the title laying on its ass up
on California Street. They call it Al-
coholics Anonymous, Al, not on&on
&on Anonymous, oozing like a rocket
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