an old response to an old beatnik

i watched my grandmother die
in the yellow room
next to the man who masturbated with the door open.
while she asked for her “damn cigarettes” he was
coming on his hospital sheets
for me to see and the nurses to clean.

my father’s face is clay now,
the kind crumbled at the bottom of the craft bag
and you can only think about how many guys i blew
before you.

i have your voice in my phone, save it for 21 days,
there’s ink on my sheets and
i only miss you because i haven’t eaten and
right now i’d lick the chicken grease from your lips.

i went back to that place where i live
with a lost soul on my mind and
old man semen under my fingernails
and you wanted me to cry with you over
the sounds and smoke through the window
through my walls
through my door.

it’s early in november and again i taste snow,
but you look away like we,
we were never naïve.
i remember when we could change things,
but our new found intellect tells us that we’re,
we’re too good to use our minds anymore.

i missed her by half an hour
and i’ll never forgive myself
for the hours wasted
watching them play activist, play revolutionist,
when we all knew they just wanted to hear
their voices in the stars.

you told me to hold on tight or i’d lose my way,
you told me, baby, it’s a wild world.
our words have been falling into the ocean and someday
they’ll wash on shore and
everybody will know but, baby,
i can’t fight your wars.
i’ll draw my way with sharpies on maps and never forget
the nights i remembered why i’m alive.

i watched my grandmother die
in the yellow room
full of cigarettes and words that i wrote on my hand
and the illusion of companionship was gone with her
and the ink washed away but the words are still there,
old words, real words, a lifetime of words,
and this is how we die.