The Body of Ginsberg

I, or rather WE get off the train,

And it is a station of white walls,

white floor,

and sunshine

Slanting in but painting orange all around

as if by cheap florescent

God is illuminating this space for us.

And going by room after room,

in silence,

But for Vedic hymns chanted

via telepathy in Soundproof cubicles...

She wants to go to lunch, but I say--

Come here. I have to show you--

And herein lies the Body of Ginsberg

which might be, as it were,

Wrapped in a cheap shroud,

a carnival-type mummy wrap

from some Chinese Isle that claims

Brahma

or Buddha

or Jesus of Nazareth

slept within its paltry threads

and adorned with the all-Pervading

One-Eyed Palm of Vishnu.

In a bed I say,

There he is I say,

What's become of him, she says...

And we move on.

Away from the window.

In that window, in the hospital bed,

Lies the Body of Ginsberg.

But not dead to the yogi chants

trying to win for him Moksha...

But alive,

as a stunted, rotted thing,

his impotent, leprous hands reaching up to heaven,

in a muted prayer.

(Has someone strung their prayer beads across the wall?)