Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 165

World Report?

What’d we remember that destroyed these armies

with a breath?

How pay rent & stay in our bodies

if we don’t sell our minds to Samsara?

If we don’t join the illusion—that Gas is life—

How can we in Dallas SMU

look forward to our futures?

work with our hands

like niggers growing Crops in the field,

& plow and harvest our own corny

fate?

Oh Walt Whitman salutations you knew the laborer,

the sexual intelligent horny handed

man who lived in Dirt

and fixed the axles of Capitalism, dumbed and laughing at hallucinated Secretaries

Of State!

Oh intellect of body back & Cock whose red neck

supports the S&M freaks of Government

police & Fascist Monopolies—

Kissinger bare assed & big buttocked

with a whip, in leather boots

scrawling on a memo to Chile “No more

civics lectures please”

When the ambassador complained about Torture

methods used in the Detention Stadium!

And I ride the planes that Rockefeller gassed

when he paid off Kissinger!

Stony Burns sits in jail, in a stone cell in

Huntsville

and breathes his news to solitude.

Homage

to the Gurus, Guru om! Thanks to the teachers

who taught us to breathe,

to watch our minds revolve in emptiness,

to follow the rise & fall of thoughts,

Illusions big as empires flowering &

Vanishing on a breath!

Thanks to aged teachers whose wrinkles

read our minds’ newspapers &

taught us not to Cling to yesterday’s

thoughts,

nor thoughts split seconds ago, but

let cities vanish on a breath—

Thanks to teachers who showed us behold

Dust motes in our own eye,

anger our own hearts,

emptiness of Dallases where we

sit thinking knitted brows—

Sentient beings are numberless I vow

to liberate all

Passions unfathomable I vow to

release them all

Thought forms limitless I vow to

master all

Awakened space is endless I vow to

enter it forever.

Dallas, December 4, 1974

We Rise on Sun Beams and Fall in the Night

Dawn’s orb orange-raw shining over Palisades

bare crowded branches bush up from marshes—

New Jersey with my father riding automobile

highway to Newark Airport—Empire State’s

spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan

rising as in W. C. Williams’ eyes between wire trestles—

trucks sixwheeled steady rolling overpass

beside New York—I am here

tiny under sun rising in vast white sky,

staring thru skeleton new buildings,

with pen in hand awake …

December 11, 1974

Written on Hotel Napkin: Chicago Futures

Wind mills churn on Windy City’s

     rooftops          Antennae

          collecting electric

above thick-loamed gardens

     on Playboy Tower

Merchandise Mart’s compost

                    privies

     supply nightsoil for Near North Side’s

                    back Gardens

Cabbages, celery & cucumbers

     sprout in Mayor Daley’s

                    frontyard

          rich with human waste—

Bathtub beer like old days

Backyard Mary Jane like

                    old days,

Sun reflectors gather heat

     in rockpile collectors

          under apartment walls

Horses graze in Parks &

     streets covered with grass

Mafia Dons shovel earth

     & bury Cauliflower

                    leaves

Old gangsters & their sons

     tending grapevines

Mid-March 1975

Hospital Window

At gauzy dusk, thin haze like cigarette smoke

ribbons past Chrysler Building’s silver fins

tapering delicately needletopped, Empire State’s

taller antenna filmed milky lit amid blocks

black and white apartmenting veil’d sky over Manhattan,

offices new built dark glassed in bluish heaven—The East

50s & 60s covered with castles & watertowers, seven storied

tar-topped house-banks over York Avenue, late may-green trees

surrounding Rockefellers’ blue domed medical arbor—

Geodesic science at the waters edge—Cars running up

East River Drive, & parked at N.Y. Hospital’s oval door

where perfect tulips flower the health of a thousand sick souls

trembling inside hospital rooms. Triboro bridge steel-spiked

raftertops stand stone-piered over mansard

penthouse orange roofs, sunset tinges the river and in a few

Bronx windows, some magnesium vapor brilliances’re

spotted five floors above E 59th St under gray painted bridge

trestles. Way downtown along the river, as Monet saw Thames

100 years ago, Con Edison smokestacks 14th street,

& Brooklyn Bridge’s skeined dim in modern mists—

Pipes sticking up to sky nine smokestacks huge visible—

U.N. Building hangs under an orange crane, & red lights on

vertical avenues below the trees turn green at the nod

of a skull with a mild nerve ache. Dim dharma, I return

to this spectacle after weeks of poisoned lassitude, my thighs

belly chest & arms covered with poxied welts,

head pains fading back of the neck, right eyebrow cheek

mouth paralyzed—from taking the wrong medicine, sweated

too much in the forehead helpless, covered my rage from

gorge to prostate with grinding jaw and tightened anus