Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 126

          lifting itself vertical tenderly,

               hanging from the sky.

Elbow on windowsill,

      I lean and muse, taller than any building here

Steam from my head

      wafting into the smog

      Elevators running up & down my leg

Couples copulating in hotelroom beds in my belly

               & bearing children in my heart,

      Eyes shining like warning-tower Lights,

          Hair hanging down like a black cloud—

Close your eyes on Chicago and be God,

          all Chicago is, is what you see—

That row of lights Finance Building

          sleeping on its bottom floors,

      Watchman stirring

      paper coffee cups by bronzed glass doors—

and under the bridge, brown water

          floats great turds of ice beside buildings’ feet

      in windy metropolis

                    waiting for a Bomb.

January 8, 1967

Returning North of Vortex

      Red Guards battling country workers

               in Nanking

          Ho-Tei trembles,

               Mao’s death near,

          Snow over Iowa

          cornstalks on icy hills,

bus wheels murmuring in afternoon brilliance toward Council Bluffs

          hogs in sunlight, dead rabbits on asphalt

          Booneville passed, Crane quiet,

          highway empty—silence as

house doors open, food on table,

                    nobody home—

      sign thru windshield

      100 Miles More to the Missouri.

How toy-like Pall Mall’s red embossed pack

      cellophane gleaming in sunshine,

          Indian-head stamped crown crested,

      shewing its dry leaf of history to my eye

now that I no longer reach my hand to the ashtray

          nor since Xmas have lit a smoke.

One puff I remember the 18 year joy-musk of manhood

          that curled thru my nostrils first time I kissed

                         another human body—

          that time with Joe Army, he seduced me

                         into smoking—

I’ll give Swami a present like Santa Claus—

                              no attachment—

          No meat nor tabaccy—even sex questionable

               Now in America craving its billions

                              of needles of War.

Detach yrself from Matter, & look about

               at the bright snowy show of Iowa,

               Earth & heaven mirroring

                         eachother’s light,

          tiny meat-trucks rolling downhill

               toward deep Omaha.

This is History, to quit smoking Anger-leaf

          into one man’s lungs,

          glancing up at gravestone rows

               in hill woods thru rear window.

This is History: Iowa’s Finest Comics:

      Sunday, Rex Morgan M.D. in snowstorm,

      Mustachio’d villain cruel eyed

               with long European hair

                         doubletalking the Doc

      “Meanwhile, under the influence of LSD

      Veronica races through the fields

               in an acute panic”—

               Author Dal Curtis

In a violet box her big tits fall on snowy ground.

Gray ice floating down Missouri, sunset into Omaha

Bishop’s Buffets, German Chocolate, wall to wall carpet

               Om A Hah, Om Ah Hu?

“The land summoned them and they loved it” cut in granite

               Post Office lintel, Walt Disney

      playing at State, week after his death.

          Table service, fireplace, armchairs,

               homeostasis in Omaha.

Steve Canyon Comics in Color:

          U.S. Military Seabees chopper

               operation dropping bridges

          over the “Lake of the Black Wind”

Princess Snowflower will

          “speak over the bullhorn to the

                         herdsmen—

          So they won’t think it’s a Chincom trick.”

          Ten-year-olds in Sunday

          morning sunlight on the rug

          dreaming of slack-cheekboned blond

               big cocked Steve Canyon

                    fucking the yellow bellies

          tied face down naked on the floor of the lone helicopter

And on Sunday Evening the Reverend Preacher

          C. O. Staggerflup—

                    America’s Hope

          POB 72 Hopkins Minnesota