Wild Monkeys!

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
angel!
The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!

— Allen Ginsberg, from "Footnote to Howl"

Io Pan Pan!

Spring drunk, every breath a reason not to sleep;
vegetal funk pervades the air lustily.
To quote an old poem, a joyous season is come upon us.
Punks in the streets, dreadlocks and olive drab pants with studs,
showing the cracks of their asses, walking thin German Shepherds on Alberta,
incapable of moving fewer than four or five at a time,
smelling fuckably unwashed, drinking cheap beer, cooking vegan in old Arts and Crafts houses with peeling porch paint, streaming cherubically through the neighborhood,
and you know they can call someone in San Francisco spring in Tucson spring in DC spring — numbers first written down on their arms in Sharpies, copied on the backs of cheap notebooks, embroidered in ballpoint, the last one awake on the porch in the echoing trainclack miracle of a rainless night.

We’ll sleep until the sun makes us sweat,
futons on bare floors, sheets thrown back and stale smoke in our hair,
eggs and whiskey and the Clash prolonging the morning endlessly
until at last we’re singing “Revolution Rock” all together with lunatic eyes
and scrubby stubble on our chins, toking in the sunspray, incense and cat piss
and stretching in the back garden, the first greenest shoots
missably decomposting to chance the light.
Tomorrow I want to get so high that I am left to bounce to work
with something between my eyes and the world like inverted binoculars,
floppy, leaving off mental gymnastics,
in eager love with everyone and everything I meet.

I am tired of swallowing this ocean of desire; I have to open up and show you
my word-scriven skin priapically ashiver,
vines through the armor, grapes promised in the August air afar,
and here we’re still awaiting carrot weather.
It could freeze, it could go fallow,
but I worship with my ancient senses
sparkling with the new year’s crushes
moving in little dance steps
touching myself the way I’d touch you
no longer clutchingly drunk but
with eyes open in the late morning
blessing the neighbors with each exultant cry.

Holy crap, D and I have now watched every single Joss Whedon TV show. That's a feat.

In more important news, we just had a really amazing small intimate dinner party. So much love. This is what sustains me.