Writing anything – poetry, novels, cookbooks, blogs – can be a lonesome business. It takes hours of solitude, contemplation, scribbling, revision; it can make bad friends of us. Trying to make something good enough to last, we tend to lock our generosity away, like so many frozen jars of soup. Literary history is rife enough with isolates, loners, and introverts, but Allen Ginsberg stands for the other, shining possibility. That words can be connective tissue; that the guy shouting on the street corner might just be onto something; that, in fact, you ought to grab your kazoo and go accompany him; that you should grab your tape recorder too, because it might just be genius.