Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 137

gas stations, smokestacks flaring poison mist,

Superhighways razored thru hairy woods,

Down to Earth Man City where Poe

               Died kidnapped by phantoms

conspiring to win elections

                         in the Deathly Gutter of 19th Century.

March 1969

Easter Sunday

Slope woods’ snows melt

Streams gush, ducks stand one foot

beak eye buried in backfeathers,

Jerusalem pillars’ gold sunlight

yellow in window-shine, bright

rays spikey-white flashed in mud,

coo coo ripples thru maple branch,

horse limps head down, pale grass shoots

green winter’s brown vegetable

hair—washed by transparent trickling

ice water freshets

earth’s rusty slough bathed clean,

streams ripple leaf-bottomed

channels sounded vocal, white light

afternoon sky end—

Goat bells move, black kids bounce,

butting mother’s hairy side & tender tit

one maa’ing child hangs under Bessie’s udder

ducks waggle yellow beaks, new grass flooded,

tiger cat maeows on barn straw,

herb patch by stone wall’s a shiny marsh,

dimpling snow water glimmers, birds whistle

from icecrystal beds under bare bushes,

breeze blows rooster crow thru chill light

extended from the piney horizon.

1969

Falling Asleep in America

We’re in the Great Place, Fable Place, Beulah, Man wedded to Earth, Planet of green Grass

Tiny atomic wheels spin shining, worlds change Heavens inside out, the planet’s reborn in ashes,

Sun lights sparkle on atomic cinder, plants levitate, green moss precedes trees trembling sentient,

Stone eats blue skies solar dazzle with invisible mouths & flowers are the rocks’ excrement—

Each million years atoms spin myriad reversals, worlds in worlds interchange populations—

from worm to man’s a tiny jump from earth to earth souls are borne ever forgetful—

populations eat their own meat, roses smell sweet in the faeces of horses risen red-fac’d.

Consciousness changes nightly, dreams flower new universes in brainy skulls.

Lying in bed body darkened ear of the bus roar running, only the eye flickering grass green returns me to Nashville.

April 1969

Northwest Passage

Incense under Horse Heaven Hills

Empty logger trucks speed

                         Lake Wallula’s flatness shimmering

Under Hat Rock painted w/

                              white highschool signs.

Chemical smoke boils up

                    under aluminum-bright cloud-roof—

Smog assembling over railroad

                    cars parked rusting on thin rails—

Factory looming vaster than Johnson

                    Butte—Look at that Shit!

Smell it! Got about 30 smokestacks going!

Polluting Wallula! Boise Cascade

                                             Container Corp!

The Package is the Product, onomatopoeticized

                                             McLuhan in ’67—

Wall Street Journal Apr. 22 full

               page ad Proclaimed:

We got the trees! We got

                         the land beneath!

We Gotta invent More Forms

                         for Cardboard Country!

We’ll dig forests for Genius

                         Spirit God Stuff Gold-root

for Sale on Wall Street. Give

                         us your money! order

                         our cardboard Wastebaskets!

We just invented throwaway Planets!

Trees crash in Heaven! Sulphurous Urine

pours thru Boise, Chevron & Brea

                         Wastepipes where Snake & Wallula

                                             ripple shining

Where Sakajawea led White Men thru blue sky

                                   fresh sweet water roads

                         Towards mountains of juicy

                                   telepathic pine & open Thalassa

Thalassa! Green salt waves

                    washing rock mountains, Pacific Sirhan lives!

                              to hear his jury say

“We now fix the penalty at Death.”

Green salt waves washing Wall Street.

Rain on gray sage near Standard

                    Oil junction Eltopia,

Static at Mesa! Yodeling ancient

                    Prajnaparamita

Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate

                                        Bodhi Svaha!

Way Down Yonder in the Bayoux

               Country in Dear old Louisian,

Hank Williams chanting to country

                                        Nature, electric

wires run up rolling brownplowed wheatfields—

Wallula polluted! Wallula polluted! Wallula polluted!

                    “For most large scale gambling enterprises to continue over any extended period of time, the cooperation of corrupt Police or local officials is necessary.” P. 1 Oregonian, “Mapping a $61 million war against organized crime, President Nixon suggested …”