Down in the Bowery or way out in North Beach
they gather or sit in solitude
to ponder and think
to drink and get high
to curse and tell stories
of Ginsberg and his lovers
of discovering Rimbaud and Henry Miller
of long gone Paris book stores and pauper life
how Alexander Pope lived and died
how sweet Maya Angelou was on the street
how Dante Aligheri must still be alive
sometimes at midnight they gather and feed the stray cats at the graveyard
and quote Bukowski
and read from Aleister Crowley
and drink to D H Lawrence
but mostly in coffee shops and bars they frequent and dwell
they write the verses of mankind
they listen for the voices in the thin air
they allow their gift to cast its wonderful spell
