Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 122

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,