On the Twentieth Anniversary of the Publication of "Howl"

Who, after I had crashed a dinner party for local Buddhists who shamelessly referred to themselves as "Jewel Hearts" & shouldered pointedly through circle after circle of syncophantic xanax-eyed celery nibblers, leered with benevolent grandfatherly eyes, & hit on me.

Who refused to read good goddamn poem but singing chanting squealing mashed a ditty on his miniature accordion to avuncular iambs of topical protest doggerel, finally relenting with Wichita Vortex Sutra, interrupted to remind us referred to our own “O Street” (“zero street”), only to conclude with his wretched rhyming “Capitol Air,” later loitered in the lobby, enmeshed in cheerful boy-English majors & listened to them enthuse & hit on them.

Who comfortable & robed & horny-eyed and sober sat up chewing macrobiotic rice with mentor Galek Rinpoche that evening at local restaurant “Crane River,” was accosted by boy-English major later known as Poetry Snark, received him gracious & genially, advised “breathing exercises,” & forgetting he had met him night before at Buddhist party, again hit on him.

Who stayed & stayed, coalescing bad local poets appearing magically as if cell-phoned in that pre-cell phone world, & drank only water & waved arms majestically reliving hormonal hippy shivers with the drunks & doters & ditzes until the generous hours dwindled, a memorable court holder, quixotically erotic at 64.

(Use this thread to talk about the times when Ginsberg hit on you ... or whatever. But do check out this worthwhile piece on him in today's New York Times.)