Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 115

      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