On Reading Ginsburg’s “Howl” Once, I possessed an open mind, Which I assure you was my own. I used it to read Ginsberg’s “Howl” Well, I don’t wish to be unkind But those words seemed randomly sown. My first reaction was a scowl. So I tried a second reading. His words looked clipped and pasted, Mashed to the page with cruel force. Was he desperate? Was he bleeding Or perhaps just strangely wasted By some bizarre urban remorse? Was there a narrative to track, Or should I have even bothered to try? Words like photos pinned up on a board And in between them all is black. Could I, from this, some deep meaning pry? Was there something I ignored? I thought it some chaotic list, From a generation not so great, Of a world’s load of flaws. His knowledge of words can’t be dismissed And it’s not a poem I hate For the picture that it draws. But frankly, the Howell to be well versed in Is the rich one they call… Thurston. R.I.P. Cassini Oh stalwart vessel! Did siren ring song Snare you like an Odyssean sailor? They say your conversion did not take long From probe into vaporized con trailer. Armchair trailblazers now salute you And your glancing into the vast unknown. Now you mix with the Saturnian dew Or perhaps through hexagonal storms are blown. Like bold chest clutching stage deaths of yore You bravely gave yourself to the ages All to make room for some alien spore Instead of Earth borne microbial rages. You brought us the music of the spheres Now forever etched on midnight sonneteers! The Harvest Set not too quickly oh dangling moon For we need effect of your soothing beams. Treat the raging apes to some subtle tune That lulls them into tranquilizing dreams. With backlit nimbus set care adrift To be marooned on some distant shore Or lodge it tightly in some comet’s rift That it might not be found… forevermore. Gild with ease the spheres where music plays. Such overtures are all too lacking At our clumsy Earthbound soirees Where good taste has, of late, been slacking. Oh host that ennead, before you sink, Of every muse that makes mankind think… Far beyond this place of rude distraction To ponder some Hesperidean satisfaction. Struck thus and with cares neatly dispatched A mind may, at last, find peace securely latched. A sonneteer who lives in Sifton, Washington, Gregory Spicer was born in Portland, Oregon in 1963 and graduated from Clark College In Vancouver, Washington in 1989.