Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! The world is dirty!
The core around the Soul is dirty, dirty, dirty!
Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassidy,
W.S. Burroughs, Peter Orlovsky, Robert LaVigne,
all dirty, writers; and so is Plath and Sexton...!
And many, many, many more—like Allen Garcia
and Hillary Clinton, Castro, Chavez, Morales,
and many, many, many more. (All dirty as Imps,
devils from the abyss.)
The saints on earth are dirty, as around the core
of my Soul! The computer, television, radios are
dirty, with their filth and gore; this poem is all
humility, or perhaps vanity, whatever, it is dirty
also, like ecstasy or encrusted happiness: dirty
(as in lust, envy, aching for?) within this world's
summer of cities.
I walk about, around, in and out, to and fro, inside
this inner city circle, see dirty walls written on;
signs, and dirty cars, and poets all looking for a
lasting name, drenched in pride, dreams and shame,
from San Francisco, to Main, from New York City, to
New Orleans, from India to Egypt; from Lima to
Arabia, and Australia (someday each and everyone
will be famous for a day, and then forgotten for eternity).
Dirty are the cafes of most cities in South and
Central America; with rats and cockroaches:
rivers of brown muck, dirty, dirty like swine, and
they serve the meat, chicken and fish, cow and pig
(muck style, when you dine...) it is all part of your times.
Dirty are the beaches around Lima, and the streets of Huancayo,
he just turned aside. He has a silent smile, he whispered
something…"God loves you!, you’re His child!"