White Panties, Dead Friends & Other Bits & Pieces of Love

What Happened on My Front Porch Last night Allen Ginsberg waved goodbyeforever. Several bees, a scorpion and a butterflyjoined him in his departure, although I didn'tsee them go off together. Their disappearancewas purely speculation. Before saying goodbyeAllen murmured that he doesn't believein a world of things. Why should he?The end has never been the end,and the universe is an open field of play,a way of breathing. Here we don't know whatis going to happen one day to the next.Except we will suffer. Except we will change.Allen smiled and blessed me.He doesn't want to be bothered anymore.He was wearing his beard long again.He seemed very much at peace.I was sober. The moonnavigated in and out among the clouds.I listened to the trains on Montana Street whistlingand I could hear my neighbors two houses downdrinking beer and singing and chatteringabout nothing. None of us will everknow how wise we are. Insidethe house my wife was asleep,she who for over 35 years has studiedthe human geography of who I am.Allen had tied his boat to the juniper tree-a light boat, with short oars-he climbedaboard and sailed off into the nowhere,happy to have saved us all. Poet, essayist and publisher Bobby Byrd, with his wife Lee, recently received the Lannan Fellowship for Cultural Freedom.