Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 113
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Open your eyes and stars
are back where they were.
And Dr. Louria committed suicide,
accused of abortion,
that sensitive man.
Well gimme yr piece of perspective
for use in the slotmachine marketplace future—
You hafta get permission down in
Freehold New Jersey to see Tibetan Monks.
You hafta get permission.
The magic formula’s printed on the back of yr chair Lady,
yr going to be the most important illuminator
since Dr. Johnson?
And Huncke suffers rejection,
contrariety of others.
“Reform U.S. Government stinks detail,”
like, congratulations Whitey, you’ll go far
in yr black Maria, right?
A public meeting in my head,
way back on River Street.
Morning, crossing New Mexico border
massive cliff waves
in mid-earth America—A blessing
these sandstone organpipes under the shimmering consciousness of LSD.
Defiance, Wingate, Red Cliffs, Thoreau,
Indian Gallup ahead,
ran by here with Peter in the white bus once
level everywhere, fenced, flat
to Texas horizon gray-fleeced with cloud haze,
where Gemini men walked space that day—
And ninety-nine soldiers piled on the train at Amarillo—
Hadn’t read the paper four weeks
training Air Force
Pneumohydraulics—
Ninety-nine soldiers entering the train
and all so friendly
Only a month
hair clipped & insulted
They weren’t too sad,
glad going to some electronics field near Chicago
—Been taking courses in Propaganda,
How not to believe what they were told
by the enemy,
Young fellas that some of them had long hair
before they came to the heated camp
friendly, over hamburgers
Volunteered
assignments behind the line of Great Machines
that drop Napalm,
milking
the Calf of Gold.
Three months from now
Vietnam, they said.
Walking the length of the train,
Lounge Car with Time Magazine
Amarillo Globe, US News & World Report
Reader’s Digest Coronet Universal Railroad Schedule,
everyone on the same track,
bound leatherette read on sofas,
America heartland passing flat
trees rising in night—
Dining Car
negro waiters negro porters
negro sandwichmen negro bartenders white jacketed
kindly old big-assed Gents half bald,
Going, sir, California to Chicago
feeding the Soldiers.
Blue eyed children climbing chair backs
staring at my beard, gay.
A consensus around card table beer—
“It’s my country,
better fight ’em over there than here,”
afraid to say “No it’s crazy
everybody’s insane—
This country’s Wrong,
the Universe, Illusion.”
Soldiers gathered round
saying—“my country
and they say I gotta fight,
I have no choice,
we’re in it too deep to pull out,
if we lose,
there’s no stopping the Chinese communists,
We’re fightin the communists, aren’t we?
Isn’t that what it’s about?”
Flatland,
emptiness,
ninety nine soldiers graduated Basic Training
eating hamburgers—
“you learn to eat fast
you learn to be insulted without caring
you gotta do what your country expects—”
even the bright talkative orphan farm boy
whose auto parts father wanted ’im to grow up military
“almost et by a male hog up to his shoulders”
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