for Allen Ginsberg

    Some for whom the green/gold vibration of existence slipped through the weft of convention to hum softly in the belly,
    Some for whom the myriad pretexts simply don’t wash, remaining pretexts,
    Some for whom the inner gnosis of the larger world Got Through, messaging Ex-stasis,
    Some for whom the low hum of existing is worth more than a pile of appliances,
    Some for whom the low hum is the wavelength of God, that is, sudden belly kinship to stars...
    Some for whom that visceral resonance connected them to ‘the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night,’ who received the subtile energies of the Cosmos oblique to the neat algorithms of utility,
    Some for whom relations to all things remain open-ended and thus glimmer with Possibility, all predicates droppt, making them secretly and not-so secretly giddy....