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Searching for Allen Ginsberg

I search for you in the stalls of university bathrooms.
You appear in dreams, buck naked between my ominous thighs.
Your beatnik lips around cock.
I want your moonlit ass beneath my covers.
Sit on my face oh beautiful Jew of Naomi's womb,
of San Francisco.
Rise from the Sands of Budapest.

I search for you in piss porcelain urinals of shopping malls.
Are you the security guard who warned me,
who teased with cock and balls,
who tried to strangle me with night stick?
Are you the lesbian who took off the handcuffs
and asked, "What if he had given you a blowjob?"

I look for you Allen, when boys kicked my ass, called me fag
on junior high basketball courts.
I search for you at age 12 when I discovered the wonders
of masturbation in Aunt Tillie's bedroom,
in front of a black and white Zenith.

I needed you in baptist churches as my father's shoes pinched my feet.

I want to tell you about the first time I tasted semen.
His name was George.

I search for you in the eyes of Michael
 who I thought could tell my future in that white boy gism.

I search for you on filthy, stink shit mattresses of window tinted vans.
Where were you when Jack kissed me in a game of Truth or Dare,
when Nick stood me up at the movies and never opened my love letters?
I thought you were the naked adonis in that yellow
Corolla at Tom Brown Park.

I search for you Allen on the floor of a bipolar bisexual who shit on my dick
 while being screwed in a recreational park.

I searched for you in Ben's windshield,
in the ocean blue of Robert's eyes.
I search for you in governmental crotches of sugar daddies.
I search for you in gay porn magazines,
in the voices of guys who want to lick my butt.

I thought you were Dennis, the Spanish
teacher assistant who licked my ears, rubbed my hands with lotion,
begged me to stay the night.

I search for you beneath shirts of frat boys,
in the bathroom mirror of John's apartment
before he left me for a red head from Boston.

Is that you Allen darling in the produce section
in A Supermarket, in California;
Squeezing apples ripe as my nipples?

Wish I was there as you read your poetry
on the sunshine steps of Florida State University
when Reagan wouldn't say the word AIDS in public-
when you shot poetic loads in the beards of conservatives.

I search for you in smoke-filled San Francisco coffee houses.
In Jack Keroauc's liquor cabinet.
Have naked lunch on William Burrough's Patio.

You were kicked out of Cuba for finding Che Guevera cute.
I search for you in the tearooms of Columbia University,
in the concert hall as you sang a duet with Bob Dylan.

I search for you through the concrete jungle of America.
I Howl for you. I will read the Kaddish for a hand job.

Are you in my room naked and sweaty?
Did you find my strawberry flavored condoms?
Is your penis stuffed and ready for a black man's mouth?

I search for you in the face of my father, in the womb of my mother.
I search for you in City Lights Bookstore, bus stop lobbies.

Come to me Allen. My door is wide-opened for you tonight.
come and crawl like a spider beneath my covers
and give me head oh hotjew based in New York.

I'm a fairy girl in distress. A black guy white guys don't want.

I want to shake your hand with Cosmopolitan Greetings.
Let's talk over eggs and grits.
Let's write poems and smoke pot.
Leave a message if I'm not home.
Where you at? Your face is plastered on telephone poles,
asking, Have you seen this man?

Where the hell are you cuz I've been worried sick.

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