who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

     who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

     who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,   

     who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

     who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

      who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

     who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

     who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

     who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

     who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

     who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

     who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

     who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,