Empathy, beauty, understanding,
mercy for it all.
Mercy to the hands and faces
in every bit of it all.
Mercy for the trees
and rocks, and creatures.
mercy to it all.
Where are the footprints of bohemia?
Beneath the raining fields of earth
Henry Clapp in cups of Pfaff's black coffee,
those porcelain white pipes
he adopted in the France
Whitman ringing the bell of Blake,
inviting all to oneness in the Grass,
the Gita in the leaves.
Bohemia itself chanting "holy, holy, holy,"
from the lives of visionary angels
who were visionary angels,
Leaping into rucksacks and mountains
smoking marijuana on the heights
of subterranean ecstasies,
Urizen giving knowledge to the beat,
And peaks like Snyder in the garden,
Duluoz in silence against the sitting dirt,
the tender bones of a saint.
And the May King of '65
frolics in the spirit of Rimbaud,
lucidity at Naropa's feet.
Percy Shelley in the flowers, in the seeds.
Percy Shelley, these ecstatic hours.
Shelley in the realm of ghosts,
talking with Rousseau before he left
with his brother, Adonais,
to the light.
Flowers upon flowers bloom
in the streets and colors of the Oracle,
Acid Tests, San Francisco on the radio,
Kundalini in the eyes of October 6, 1966
revealing Be-Ins in the park,
Flowers and mirrors in words
to the dhuni of the Avadhuta.