Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 126
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lifting itself vertical tenderly,
hanging from the sky.
Elbow on windowsill,
I lean and muse, taller than any building here
Steam from my head
wafting into the smog
Elevators running up & down my leg
Couples copulating in hotelroom beds in my belly
& bearing children in my heart,
Eyes shining like warning-tower Lights,
Hair hanging down like a black cloud—
Close your eyes on Chicago and be God,
all Chicago is, is what you see—
That row of lights Finance Building
sleeping on its bottom floors,
Watchman stirring
paper coffee cups by bronzed glass doors—
and under the bridge, brown water
floats great turds of ice beside buildings’ feet
in windy metropolis
waiting for a Bomb.
January 8, 1967
Returning North of Vortex
Red Guards battling country workers
in Nanking
Ho-Tei trembles,
Mao’s death near,
Snow over Iowa
cornstalks on icy hills,
bus wheels murmuring in afternoon brilliance toward Council Bluffs
hogs in sunlight, dead rabbits on asphalt
Booneville passed, Crane quiet,
highway empty—silence as
house doors open, food on table,
nobody home—
sign thru windshield
100 Miles More to the Missouri.
How toy-like Pall Mall’s red embossed pack
cellophane gleaming in sunshine,
Indian-head stamped crown crested,
shewing its dry leaf of history to my eye
now that I no longer reach my hand to the ashtray
nor since Xmas have lit a smoke.
One puff I remember the 18 year joy-musk of manhood
that curled thru my nostrils first time I kissed
another human body—
that time with Joe Army, he seduced me
into smoking—
I’ll give Swami a present like Santa Claus—
no attachment—
No meat nor tabaccy—even sex questionable
Now in America craving its billions
of needles of War.
Detach yrself from Matter, & look about
at the bright snowy show of Iowa,
Earth & heaven mirroring
eachother’s light,
tiny meat-trucks rolling downhill
toward deep Omaha.
This is History, to quit smoking Anger-leaf
into one man’s lungs,
glancing up at gravestone rows
in hill woods thru rear window.
This is History: Iowa’s Finest Comics:
Sunday, Rex Morgan M.D. in snowstorm,
Mustachio’d villain cruel eyed
with long European hair
doubletalking the Doc
“Meanwhile, under the influence of LSD
Veronica races through the fields
in an acute panic”—
Author Dal Curtis
In a violet box her big tits fall on snowy ground.
Gray ice floating down Missouri, sunset into Omaha
Bishop’s Buffets, German Chocolate, wall to wall carpet
Om A Hah, Om Ah Hu?
“The land summoned them and they loved it” cut in granite
Post Office lintel, Walt Disney
playing at State, week after his death.
Table service, fireplace, armchairs,
homeostasis in Omaha.
Steve Canyon Comics in Color:
U.S. Military Seabees chopper
operation dropping bridges
over the “Lake of the Black Wind”
Princess Snowflower will
“speak over the bullhorn to the
herdsmen—
So they won’t think it’s a Chincom trick.”
Ten-year-olds in Sunday
morning sunlight on the rug
dreaming of slack-cheekboned blond
big cocked Steve Canyon
fucking the yellow bellies
tied face down naked on the floor of the lone helicopter
And on Sunday Evening the Reverend Preacher
C. O. Staggerflup—
America’s Hope
POB 72 Hopkins Minnesota
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