Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 115
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watched the Herd Boy cross the Milky Way
to meet the Weaving Girl…
How can we war against that?
How can we war against that?
Morning song, waking from dreams
brown grass, city edge nettle
wild green stinkweed trees
by railroad thru niggertown, carlot, scrapheap
auto slag bridge outskirts,
muddy river’s brown debris
passing Eton Junction
fine rainmist over green fields—
Trees standing upside down
in lush earth approaching Mississippi
green legs waving to clouds,
seed pods exposed to birds & rain bursting,
tree heads drinking in the ground.
Unfold stones like rag dolls & the Astral
body stares with opal eyes,
—all living things before my spectacles.
In the diner, the Lady
“These soldiers so nice, clean faces
and their hair combed so short—
Ugh its disgusting the others
—down to their shoulders & cowboy boots—”
aged husband spooning cantaloupe.
Too late, too late
the Iron Horse hurrying to war,
too late for laments
too late for warning—
I’m a stranger alone in my country again.
Better to find a house in the veldt,
better a finca in Brazil—
Green corn here healthy under sky
& telephone wires carry news as before,
radio bulletins & television images
build War—
American Fighter Comic Books
on coach seat.
Better a house hidden in trees
Mississippi bank
high cliff protected from flood
Better an acre down Big Sur
morning path, ocean shining
first day’s blue world
Better a farm in backland Oregon,
roads near Glacier Peak
Better withdraw from the Newspaper world
Better withdraw from the electric world
Better retire before war cuts my head off,
not like Kabir—
Better to buy a Garden of Love
Better protect the lamb in some valley
Better go way from taxicab radio cities
screaming President,
Better to stop smoking
Better to stop jerking off in trains
Better to stop seducing white bellied boys
Better to stop publishing Prophecy—
Better to meditate under a tree
Better become a nun in the forest
Better turn flapjacks in Omaha
than be a prophet on the electric Networks—
There’s nothing left for this country but doom
There’s nothing left for this country but death
Their faces are so plain
their thoughts so simple,
their machinery so strong—
Their arms reach out 10,000 miles with lethal gas
Their metaphor so mixed with machinery
No one knows where flesh ends and
the robot Polaris begins—
“Waves of United States jetplanes struck at North Vietnam
again today in the face of…”
Associated Press July 21st—
A summer’s day in Illinois!
Green corn silver watertowers
under the viaduct windowless industry
at track crossing white flowers,
American flowers,
American dirt road, American rail,
American Newspaper War—
in Galesburg, in Galesburg
grocery stove pipes and orange spikeflowers
in backyard lots—TV antennae
spiderweb every poor house
Under a smokestack with a broken lip
magnetic cranes drop iron scrap like waterdrops.
Thirtytwo years ago today, the woman in the red
dress outside the Biograph Theatre in Chicago
didn’t wanna be sent back to Rumania.
Ambushed Dillinger fell dead on the sidewalk
hit by 4 bullets
FBI man Purvis quit in ’35—
Feb 29, 1960 he shot & killed himself in his home
Army Colonel in World War II
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