Regarding Holly Prado's review of the collected Allen Ginsberg (Book Review, Jan. 20), all I can say is:
\o7 Vers Promiscuus From womb to tomb I wonder as I go,
what cadence shall I call to lead my way?
But why take pains to scribe a rhythmic beat
on peeling walls of time graffitoed with
prosaic strophes that don't celebrate
that Apollonian craft called poetry,
but hoarsely stutter without melody?...
Just tongue-tied Angst and self-indulgent lines
that "howl" a simplified philosophy