Talking of Dead Jack – Allen Ginsberg

Oct 29—N.Y. Maine


I am flying into a trail of Black Smoke

Kerouac’s obituary conserves Time’s

Front Paragraphs—

Empire State in Heaven Sun Set red

White Mist

over the billion trees of the Bronx—

There’s too much to see

Jack saw Sun Set Red over the Hudson Horizon

Two three decades back

thirtynine fortynine fiftynine


John Holmes pursed his lips, cynic

& empty-eyed robot,

and wept tears.

Smoke plumed up from oceanside chimneys

plane roars north over Long Island

Montauk stretched in red sunset—

Northport, in the trees, jack drank

rot gut & maide haikus of birds

tweetling on his porch rail at dawn—

Fell down & saw death’s golden lite

in Florida garden a decade ago.

Now taken utterly, soul upward,

& body down in wood coffin

& concrete slab-box

I threw a kissed handful of damp earth

down on the stone lid

& sighed

Looking in Creeley’s one eye,

Peter sweet holding a flower

Gregory toothless bending his

knuckle to Cinema Machine—

and that’s the end of the drabble tongued

poet who sounded his Kock-rup

throughout the Northwest Passage.

Blue dusk over Saybrook, Holmes

sits down to dine Victorian—

& Time has a Ten Page Spread on


Well, while I’m here I’ll

do the work—

and what’s the work?

To ease the pain of living.

Everything else, drunken