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