Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 130

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when I lay trembling at your breast

                                             put your arm around my neck,

—we stood together in a bare room on 103d St.

Listening to a wooden Radio,

                                             with our eyes closed

Eternal redness of Shabda

                                             lamped in our brains

at Illinois Jacquet’s Saxophone Shuddering,

                         prophetic Honk of Louis Jordan,

                         Honeydrippers, Open The Door Richard

                                             To Christ’s Apocalypse—

The buildings’re insubstantial—

That’s my New York Vision

                                             outside eastern apartment offices

                         where telephone rang last night

                                             and stranger’s friendly Denver Voice

asked me, had I heard the news from the West?

Some gathering Bust, Eugene Oregon or Hollywood Impends

                         I had premonition.

“No” I said—“been away all week,”

                         “you havent heard the News from the West,

                                             Neal Cassady is dead—”

               Peter’s dove-voic’d Oh! on the other line, listening.

Your picture stares cheerful, tearful, strain’d,

                                             a candle burns,

                         green stick incense by household gods.

Military Tyranny overtakes Universities, your Prophecy

                         approaching its kindest sense brings us

                                             Down

                                             to the Great Year’s awakening.

Kesey’s in Oregon writing novel language

                                             family farm alone.

Hadja no more to do? Was your work all done?

                    Had ya seen your first son?

                              Why’dja leave us all here?

                    Has the battle been won?

I’m a phantom skeleton with teeth, skull

                         resting on a pillow

                         calling your spirit

               god echo consciousness, murmuring

                                             sadly to myself.

Lament in dawnlight’s not needed,

                                             the world is released,

                         desire fulfilled, your history over,

                                             story told, Karma resolved,

                                             prayers completed

                         vision manifest, new consciousness fulfilled,

                                             spirit returned in a circle,

               world left standing empty, buses roaring through streets—

                         garbage scattered on pavements galore—

               Grandeur solidified, phantom-familiar fate

                                             returned to Auto-dawn,

                                             your destiny fallen on RR track

My body breathes easy,

                                             I lie alone,

                                             living

After friendship fades from flesh forms—

heavy happiness hangs in heart,

                                        I could talk to you forever,

                                             The pleasure inexhaustible,

                                             discourse of spirit to spirit,

                                             O Spirit.

Sir spirit, forgive me my sins,

Sir spirit give me your blessing again,

Sir Spirit forgive my phantom body’s demands,

Sir Spirit thanks for your kindness past,

Sir Spirit in Heaven, What difference was yr mortal form,

                         What further this great show of Space?

                         Speedy passions generations of

                                   Question? agonic Texas Nightrides?

                                   psychedelic bus hejira-jazz,

                         Green auto poetries, inspired roads?

Sad, Jack in Lowell saw the phantom most—

                         lonelier than all, except your noble Self.

Sir Spirit, an’ I drift alone:

                                             Oh deep sigh.

February 10, 1968, 5–5:30 A.M.

Chicago to Salt Lake by Air

If Hanson Baldwin got a bullet in his brain, outrage?

If President Johnson got a bullet in his brain, fast Karma?

If Reader’s Digest got a bullet in its brain would it be smarter?

March ’68, P. 54 “Report from Vietnam, The foe is Hurting”

… “The dismal picture of 1965, when I previously visited Vietnam,

has been reversed: The Allies are winning, and the enemy is being hurt,”

wrote “The distinguished military Editor of the New York Times”

The Dinosaur moves slowly over Chicago.

Arrived on United Airlines just in time all wrong.

Anger in the back of the plane cabin, anger at Reader’s Digest

Hanson Baldwin’s “Allies”? Hanson Baldwin’s “The Enemy”?

Arguing with a schizophrenic is hopeless. A bullet in the brain.

Mr. Baldwin suggests more bullets in the brain to solve his Vietnam Problem.

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