Your footprints litter dust-drowned alleyways,
Kept clean by an army of chickens
pecking at the eternal sand.
Your warn out foot prints, Mr. Ginsberg
Your worn out footprints Have led me
to a street market in West Bombay
No neon-signs, no trotsky-ites
No Leaves of Grass at all
Grey Flannel cooking curry
Just two dollars and fortyseven cents.
Shop through the aisles of dotted wives
So thoughtfully arranged.
Snake Charmers, Allen Ginsberg
As you float above the city,
The tin can huts and brown rice pots,
Where the air smells like mountain goat
And the Dahli Lama waits
As you begin to seee the world
But nothing as colors, shapes, and sounds
