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ginsberg, are you proud of me yet? for my short bangs and long answers my beer-caked papers and pastel coloured cigarettes, their gold filters lying torn among ashes could you approve of the way i smoke? my false idols lining wall and windowsill, shifting eyes at local art and antiquity what of my typewritten pages and shiny LPs -would you scoff at my many anthologies? do you like my straight teeth, allen? my marijuana plant with dimebag roots? what about my daily goals of sexual intercourse and procuring drugs my vegan and gluten-free friends my appreciation of sunsets, dusk and dawn? allen, do you approve of my fixed gear bicycle? my arts degree and secondhand lapsteel? and what of my poetry does it pose the questions you sent out to answer? does my lack of rhyme and meter pull at your low-brow heart? when can i walk into a bookstore and buy your work with my good looks? when can we smoke 3 cigarettes and talk about feelings? ginsberg, i don't feel good. don't bother me.