Holy Moment Blues

The line of thought that runs through this poem was largely provocated by one of my favorite poems, “ Song ” by Allen Ginsberg, as well as my own   life & existential angst *cries*. I wrote this poem about five years ago, and it’s crazy to me how much it still resonates with me. Sometime I think this one might be a roadmap of my life, but I hope that changes.

The line of thought that runs through this poem was largely provocated by one of my favorite poems, “Song” by Allen Ginsberg, as well as my own life & existential angst *cries*. I wrote this poem about five years ago, and it’s crazy to me how much it still resonates with me. Sometime I think this one might be a roadmap of my life, but I hope that changes.

I crave connection

Don’t we all?

Isn’t it the human condition?

Isn’t it the light at the end of the tunnel?

It’s in the books we read

the films we watch

it’s in your morning cup of coffee

Especially in my dreams, it’s there:

two warm bodies intertwined in the darkness

I awake

4am, red city haze—

definitely alone

As I’m getting older, I expect it more

in pleasant moments— drunk swaying moments

and then I doubt it even more

when I am tracing ant paths on cold concrete

I search for it endlessly

everywhere I go

when I am sitting out on the bluffs

on a bed of ice plants,

pale halo of moon piercing though a veil of sea mist

and I imagine some divine force extending its hands to me, to take me home

like the last gray fingers of clouds shooting out from the black

Then, I look to my right and see Jim Morrison’s crystal ship—

that blinking oil rig, lit up like some eternal Christmas tree

and I wonder at his loneliness

I wonder if everything was made right up there

But after I have worn out all my wonderings

I often become frustrated with myself

for being such a sentimental human being

and I let the brilliant sunflower unfurling from my forehead

wilt

in black tar oil

with no water and no light

I become disgusted with my desire

and turn away from it

I walk along Pardall, that expansive cement strip, like some kind of saint—

a worn ascetic  

crushing dead leaves under holy cowboy boots

golden rays glowing from the swathe of humidity around my hair

I get so stoned that the world dissolves away like a bad dream

But, in the end, it cannot be denied

the longing persists

I crave connection

Don’t we all?

It’s your hunger

your voracious unending appetite

it’s your illness and antidote

your addiction and fix

sometimes I think every itching craving

that buzzes around my ashtray-mind like some incessant fly

is just a substitute for the connection I desire

Either you lost it at birth

when you left your mother’s arms

or you never had it at all

you’re no better off clinging to some great Godhead

the longing is ingrained—

biological, even

Relieve it with drugs:

uppers or downers

pills, alcohol, blow

take your pick

lose yourself in cinema, music, art, technology, debate

in the cosmic safety of an orgasm

distract

desire materials

desire to lose weight, to be attractive

it’s all a guise, a sweet trick of the mind

that drips into your ear canals like cherry cough syrup

a temporary substitute for what we truly want and need


And when it finally seems to arrive—

oh, holy moment

the lips touch, the eyes lock

and pupils bloom wide to seize the object of desire

It, too, is temporary.


The mind drifts and fades into the slumber

of its dimly lit haven

and two strangers lie in the darkness

4am, red city haze—

definitely alone

So, where is this greater connection?

or, dare I ask,

does it even exist?

The long searching question

We all want to believe we are awake for something more

than the hum and tick of machinery

beyond our humble bodies

that cower beneath an overhang of celestial lights

Yes, we all want to believe

in Ginsberg’s holy moment.

Oh, holy moment,

when we return to the bodies from where we were born.