my bus riding is an obsession
over the thought of talking
to the only one
in maine who looks
like me, a young allen ginsberg whose
beard I imagine soft red
against my face
and skinny
thighs under my
for months I’ve imagined
saying to him
“are you
are a writer” for countless days
I’ve stared
straight ahead
today I removed my
headphones so I could
hear what he hears—
a signal to him—
my friend I have
not spoken to, who
always lets me
step onto the bus before him,
monitoring the puddles
so I won’t step in

I study phenomenalism
and shred
paper ten hours a day

allen ginsberg is my roommate,
he is a good friend of mine, I have
known him for years. our house
is small and covered in books,
art, plants, jack Kerouac
waiting in the hall
we grow our own
food. there is no room in the
fridge, my room is open and
scattered with things:
orange juice and ostrich eggs
in the corner, paris outside, the marinara sauce tastes of tears
I try to come up with another description, but only
think of tears
allen ginsberg and I fall into each other’s
arms and make poems we look into
each other’s eyes, smile
and think of poems
we pull
poems from the paint on the walls and pick them
from moldy plant soil

I stand over a paper
shredder box after box
ten hours a day