Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 122
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and everytime I had a headache, God dealt me
Ace of Spades—
I thought I was mind-consciousness 10 yrs before that,
and everytime I went to the Dentist the Kosmos disappeared,
Now I don’t know who I am—
I wake up in the morning surrounded
by meat and wires,
pile drivers crashing thru the bedroom floor,
War images rayed thru Television apartments,
Machine chaos on Earth,
Too many bodies, mouths bleeding on every Continent,
my own wall plaster cracked,
What kind of prophecy
for this Nation
Of Autumn leaves,
for those children in High School, green
woolen jackets
chasing football up & down field—
North of Long Meadow, Massachusetts
Shafts of Sunlight
Thru yellow millions,
blue light thru clouds,
President Johnson in a plane toward Hawaii,
Fighter Escort above & below
air roaring—
Radiostatic electric crackle from the
center of communications:
I broadcast thru Time,
He, with all his wires & wireless,
only an Instant—
Up Main Street Northampton,
houses gabled sunny afternoon,
Ivy library porch—
Big fat pants, workshirt filled w/leaves,
painted pumpkinshead sitting Roof Corner,
—or hanging from frontyard tree country road—
Tape Machines, cigarettes, cinema, images,
Two Billion Hamburgers, Cognitive Thought,
Radiomusic, car itself,
this thoughtful Poet—
Interruption of brightly colored Autumn Afternoon,
clouds passed away—
Sky blue as a roadsign,
but language intervenes.
on route 9 going North—
“Then Die, my verse” Mayakovsky yelled
Die like the rusty cars
piled up in the meadow—
Entering Whately,
Senses amazed on the hills,
bright vegetable populations
hueing rocks nameless yellow,
veils of bright Maya over New England,
Veil of Autumn leaves laid over the Land,
Transparent blue veil over senses,
Language in the sky—
And in the city, brick veils,
curtains of windows,
Wall Street’s stage drops,
Honkytonk scenery—
or slum-building wall scrawled
“Bourgeois Elements must go”—
All the cows gathered to the feed truck in the middle of the pasture,
shaking their tails, hungry for the yellow Fitten Ration
that fills the belly
and makes the eyes shine
& mouth go Mooooo.
Then they lie down in the hollow green meadow to die—
In old Deerfield, Indian Tribes & Quakers
have come & tried
To conquer Maya-Time—
Thanksgiving pumpkins
remain by the highway,
signaling yearly Magic
plump from the ground.
Big leaves hang and hide the porch,
& babies scatter by the red lights
of the bridge at Greenfield.
The green Eagle on a granite pillar—
sign pointing route 2A The Mohawk Trail,
Federal Street apothecary shop & graveyard thru which
highschool athletes
tramp this afternoon—
Gold gold red gold yellow gold older than painted cities,
Gold over Connecticut River cliffs
Gold by Iron railroad,
gold running down riverbank,
Gold in eye, gold on hills,
golden trees surrounding the barn—
Silent tiny golden hills, Maya-Joy in Autumn
Speeding 70 MPH.
October 17, 1966
Done, Finished with the Biggest Cock
Done, finished, with the biggest cock you ever saw.
3 A.M., living room filled with quiet yellow electric,
curtains hanging on New York, one window lit
in unfinished skyscraper.
Swami White Beard
Being-Consciousness-Delight’s photo’s tacked
to bookshelf filled with Cosmic Milarepa, Wm. Blake’s
Prophetic Writings, Buddhist Logic & Hymn to the Goddess,
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