Jack Lemmon still cares about love.

coherent on streets washed free of drunk laughs
for once little italy is not a shameless buffet of sexual parts and pricey alcohol
colour-co-ordinated-bodies you could slurp up from sidewalks
people should wear little pricetags stating measurements dick size the cost of present outfit salary living arrangements number of drinks before I'll fuck you
that way nobody will be surprised when they unwrap the package at home.
a bunch of Americans stopped me in front of cafe diplomatico
they wanted to know like, where the action is, y'know
I asked if they wanted to get laid or meet cool people or just dance
they ignored me and asked where I was going.
Lightning lit up the sky and in the windows of american apparel
all the bright spandex clad legs with asses out
looked pretty fucking ominous.

(Ginsberg's howl generation was still vibrant, still drunk on its own self-destruction, pushing out into something new whereas my generation is inert and locked in a cycle of recycled and simulated immediacy or maybe Ginsberg felt that way too, maybe we misinterpret him. I dreamed of Ginsberg last night, he is still with me I am thankful for good friends and people who create things)