No Gin in My Ginsberg
Clinton Van Inman

Just a handful of Zen is all you left
As we watched you change
Into those borrowed robes
And chant your mantras to
Run away people in parking lots.
Such a real cool daddio only children
Failed to recognize you once prophet
Of bongo players, jazz players of the world.
Did you really think we
Would shave our heads?
Clever you, you fooled them all but not me.
My face formless like the Immortals,
I followed your nameless streets
That led all the way to India and beyond.
I still howl in your painted posies.
I now spit in your holy water
And write your name now only in
Urine.