 Hello. Get the commercial out of the way. It's love, a century of changing attitudes in American pop music. Better than that, I lucked out because Lawrence Filanghetti was out of town and get to read to you from Howell. Howell was banned in 56. I was seven years old. And in a sense, it was lucky that it was banned, because I got to hear about it. It was still famous when I needed it, when I was about 13. And I think that this book has continued to serve that function for young men of my bent. My partner Ken discovered Ginsburg in a Norton anthology in his first year of college, a poem from this book, The One About the Supermarket. And when he was in Paris, found a series of haikus. And after I read you a small part of Howell, I'll read some of the haikus. OK, I obviously can't read from the body of Howell, because it goes on for 20 pages before the first period. But the footnote to Howell. Holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy. The world is holy. The soul is holy. The skin is holy. The nose is holy. The tongue and cock and hand and asshole, holy. Everything is holy. Everybody's holy. Everywhere is holy. Every day is an eternity. Every man's an angel. The bums as holy as the seraphim. The madman is holy. As you, my soul, are holy. The typewriter is holy. The poem is holy. The voice is holy. The healers are holy. The ecstasy is holy. Holy Peter, holy Allen, holy Solomon, holy Lucian, holy carolac, holy hunky, holy boroughs, holy Cassidy, holy the unknown buggered and suffering beggars, holy the hideous human angels, holy my mother in the insane asylum, holy the cocks of the grandfathers of Kansas, holy the groaning saxophone, holy the bop apocalypse, holy the jazz bands, marijuana hipsters, peace and junk and drums, holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements, holy the cafeterias filled with the millions, holy the mysterious rivers of tears under the streets, holy the lone juggernaut, holy the vast wham of the middle class, holy the crazy shepherds of rebellion, who digs Los Angeles is Los Angeles. Holy New York, holy San Francisco, holy Peoria and Seattle, holy Paris, holy Tangiers, holy Moscow, holy Istanbul, holy time and eternity, holy eternity in time, holy the clocks in space, holy the fourth dimension, holy the fifth international, holy the angel in malloc, holy the sea, holy the desert, holy the railroad, holy the locomotive, holy the visions, holy the hallucinations, holy the miracles, holy the eyeball, holy the abyss, holy forgiveness, mercy, charity, faith, holy albs, bodies, suffering, magnanimity, holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul. Haikus, time? Through these haikus, so we get off the rant. American haiku, standing on the porch in my underwear shorts, auto lights in warm rain. A dandelion seat floats above the marsh grass with the mosquitoes. At four o'clock a.m., the two middle-aged men sleeping together hold hands. Pumpkin Square, Lower East Side, New York. Four skinheads stand in the streetlight rain chatting under an umbrella. I'm hearing the mu'azim cry ala'akbar while visiting the Pythian Oracle at Didema toward the end of the second millennium. At sunset, Apollo's columns echo with the ball of the one God. Last, I can still see Neal's 23-year-old corpse when I come in my hand.