as we wind our way to california.
my thoughts are with you, ginsberg,
in your supermarket, in your baggage room at greyhound.
this is still your world, fifty years hence,
less buddha, more bullshit.
crushed and cramped in seats too small
writing, reading, listening, watching silence and strangers,
alone on i-5 between mountains and telephone polls,
black trees, weary limbs and the powder-white dust of the combine harvesters.
so many more hours to go and all of them for you.
we are all in this together.
nothing left to do but wait –
for the sun, for the night, to collect our bags
and to search the slopes of san francsico for your shadow,
for your soul,
for your grimacing, grinning ghost.