beat hotel

when I dream I dream of Gregory Corso
eating grapes in an attic in Paris,
Allen and Peter coming up the stair
drunk and planning another orgy.
and in my sleep I am never sleeping
but watching the light hit Allen's glasses
when he warns me of the rats
living in the rug in the hallway and of
possession, ugly black beings
who will stare me out of my lunch money.

this is a new development,
this cavorting with dead heroes
and pioneers dealing peyote
passing themselves off as
messiahs: America got the message,
boys. America hears you loud and clear
though it took forty years for the echo
to reach us through all the static.

Burroughs, too, tall and sunken
like some old-world cathedral,
always cut off somehow, half-focused
as if too much clarity would bring
disaster to the greater picture.
he can offer advice and cigarettes,
how to burn down newspaper kiosks
with only my mind and a whole lotta control.

waking is never a problem; everybody
ends up in Paris when asleep anyway.
I leave them piss-drunk, disheveled,
psychotic, explosive, delusional
and insecure with the present future,
Corso still eating his grapes and posing
with wooden Buddhas, Peter weaving
through the red light district, and Allen
weeping and writing and glaring at pigeons.