The Poet for J.K.
His genius is sired of misery or magic;
he dwells between disaster & the dream.
He might have been sedate; but only tragic
ecstasy is musical to him.
In every chaos he will wish a cure;
in life, a higher mystery of sorrow;
in death, the last existence that is pure.
Curoisity betrays him to tomorrow.
Necromantic passion, final terror
is his bequest: The wound was all he had
to multiply. Balancing the rope of error,
he shall fall to doom. He shall be mad,
sadly, deceived, he shall live, and he shall die
a master of all mummery.
Sept 4th issue of The New Yorker had this and another Ginsberg poem to Jack K. from a forthcoming book of Allen's earlier works. There is also a collected edition (1947-1997) due out in Oct. I just started training a group of scorers for a new project so not too sure when I will be able to post. Enjoy this for now.