I think of how Allen Ginsberg
could see society when gizmos glistened
salvation, freeways traced our future,
freeon cooled our passions,
primeval blackooze birthed plastic,
the prophylactic of progress,
east yeasted west,
and Moloch masheened the spirit.
I try to visualize the monstrous measure of
plastic chit, the frenzies of pleonastic chat
compacted into our cyberpsyches,
the glut of images between us
and society, but I can only crave them.
I see a cross-legged sunflowered sufi flush
against the south side of Big Daddy’s
menu meditated to the effervescence,
lift his head toward
the open-air bazaar of neon Buddhas and
rayon penumbras cadenced to the cackling
chilidogs, then disappear up the Boardwalk.
I join the body bedlam in pursuit and it parts
at Clubhouse with a jordached,
turbaned skater strumming the end of the
west as we know it,
his rapid eye movements currying the crowd
through quickie nirvanas to greased palms.