The Green Automobile

Tonight, Allen Ginsberg, I am with you in your Green Automobile
I am sleeping, eyes open under the stars
I am pressing my lumbar vertebrae into the seat, painfully
Forcing my shoulder blades out of alignment

Tonight, Allen Ginsberg, I can only hear your typewriter
In my head, only your bald head reflecting a beam of
Light onto the paper
I am so much younger than you
But we both make love to the same man.

I scribble, you punch
I am so spiky, so jumbled, so loopy
You are precise, only a slight bleeding of ink
And the clicking is so strangely
Reviving like a heartbeat
In a dead man.

Right now the planets, the stars stare back
At both of us, I imagine
They are jumping around their so many
Light years away
I see a bouncing speck
But you in your spectacles
You are the master of the universe.

Like some Princeton reject, I scramble to copy
The words down, to blow my nose without a tissue
Spray my brains all over the paper
If only I could see it
There would be a perfect metaphor
If you would start your car,
You could take us there.