Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 223

lying on the table by Nuclear Nightmare issue of Newsweek,

Katherine Mansfield’s thick bio & Addington Symonds’ The Greek Poets

lifting a white lamp above my headboard pillow illuminating Living Country Blues’ small print 1 A.M. last night,

with B complex bottled, green mint massage oil, High Blood Pressure nightly Clonadine Hydrochloric pills,

athlete’s foot Tolnaftate cream, newsclip scissors and a rusty shoe-last bookweight standing on xeroxed Flying Saucer papers,

new ballpoint pens, watch, wallet, loose coins keys Swiss army knife

toothpicks, pencil sharpener & filefolder of Buddhist Analytic Psyche papers

scattered random across this bedstead desk—

As I breathed between white walls, Front Range cliffs resting in the sky outside south windows

I remembered last night’s television suitcoat tie debate, the neat Jewish right wing student outwitted a nervous Dartmouth pimply liberal editor

knowing that boy who swears to “get the Government off our backs” would give my tax money to Army brass bands FBI rather than St. Mark’s Poetry Project—

He can’t read verse with any sense of humor sharp eyed

but then some poets can’t either, did Ed Dorn find me fatuous, can I breathe in hot black anger & breathe out white cool bliss?

Doomed guilty layman all my life! these pills causing impotency?

Could I move bookcases & clothes out of my bedroom, 8 foot desk file cabinets & typewriter

to the small apartment next door N.Y., would that end my hideous Public Karma,

Telephones tingling down my spine, pederast paranoid hypnotic burnt out teenage fruitcake poets

banging the door for protection from Brain Damaged Electric Guitar Police in New Wave Blue Vibration Uniforms?

Be that as it may as blue empty Buddha floats through blue bodied sky,

should I settle down & practice meditation, care for my nervous Self, do nothing,

arrange paper manuscripts, die in Lower East Side peace instead of heart attack in Ethiopia,

What way out of this Ego? let it appear disappear, mental images

Nothing but thoughts, how solve World Problems by worrying in my bedroom?—

Still one clear word-mighty poem might reveal what Duncan named Grief in America

that one hundred million folk malnourish the globe while Civic Powers inflate $200 billion War Machines this year—

and who gets rich on that, don’t all of us get poor heart?—but what do I know of Military Worlds?

Airfields and Aircraft Carriers, bugle Corps, ice cream concessions,

million dollar Computer rockets—yes I glimpse CIAs spooky dope deal vanity—but nothing of Camp Pendleton’s brainy Thoughts

Norfolk officers’ vast housing tracts, messes and helicopters, food resource

logistics Pentagon committees’ve amassed—NORAD’s Rapture Mountain

Maybe get rid of Cold War, give Russian Empire warm weather access,

inaugurate trillion dollar Solar Power factories on every Continent—

Yes access to sunny blue ocean, not Cold Murmansk & Vladivostok Ports they need a vast hot harbor

International Agreement big warships forbidden, no battleships from Russia or America in the azure Greek pond—

What about pirates, storms at sea or kamikaze Hell’s Angel North Africans shooting Jews?

Well a few small Police boats, no Cruisers or Nuclear Subs—

Yes a warm weather port for Russian access South I thought

sitting on my bedroom floor cushion 10:30 A.M. getting hungry breathing thru shades & curtains on transparent windows, morning sun shining on white painted walls and gray rug—

So remembering the old story of Russia’s claim to a warm weather harbor I came back to myself, blue clouded Colorado sky adrift above the Bluff Street Boulder house.

November 8, 1982

What the Sea Throws Up at Vlissingen

for Simon Vinkenoog

Plastic & cellophane, milk cartons & yogurt containers, blue & orange shopping bag nets

Clementine peels, paper sacks, feathers & kelp, bricks & sticks,

succulent green leaves & pine tips, waterbottles, plywood and tobacco pouches

Coffee jartops, milkbottle caps, rice bags, blue rope, an old brown shoe, an onion skin

Concrete chunks white pebbled, sea biscuits, detergent squeezers, bark and boards, a whisk-brush, a box top

Formula A Dismantling Spray-can, a whole small brown onion, a yellow cup

A boy with two canes walking the shore, a dead gull, a blue running shoe,

a shopping bag handle, lemon half, celery bunch, a cloth net—

Cork bottletop, grapefruit, rubber glove, wet firework tubes,

masses of iron-brown-tinted seaweed along the high water mark near the sea wall,

a plastic car fender, green helmet broken in half, giant hemp rope knot, tree trunk stripped of bark,

a wooden stake, a bucket, myriad plastic bottles, pasta Zara pack,

a long gray plastic oildrum, bandage roll, glass bottle, tin can, Christmas pine tree

a rusty iron pipe, me and my peepee.

January 3, 1983

I Am Not

I’m not a lesbian screaming in the basement strapped to a leather spiderweb

I’m not a Rockefeller heart attacked in the paramour bed with pants off

I’m not a radical Stalinist intellectual fairy

not an antisemitic Rabbi with black hat white beard & dirty fingernails

not the San Francisco jail cell poet beaten by minions of yellow police New Year’s eve

not Gregory Corso Orpheus Maudit of these States

nor yet a schoolteacher with marvelous salary

I’m not anyone I know

in fact I’m only here for 80 years

St. Clement’s Church, March 7, 1983

I’m a Prisoner of Allen Ginsberg

Who is this Slave Master makes

     me answer letters in his name

Write poetry year after year, keep up

     appearances

This egotist whose file cabinets

     leave no room for more

     pictures of Me?

How escape his clutches, his public sound,

     bank accounts, Master Charge

     interest

Who’s this politician hypnotized my life

     with his favors

Petty friends & covert Nemesis, dead heroes and

     living ghosts hanging around

waiting Genius handout?

Why’s this guy oblige me to sit

     meditating,

shine rocknroll Moon on Midwest Collegetown

     stages blind in overhead

     spotlights

bawling out of tune into giant microphones

makes me go down suck teenage boys

I declare a new life, how can I pay all

     his debts

next month’s rent on his body,

     bald & panicky, with Pyronie’s disease

Cartilage stuff grown an inch inside

     his cock root,

non-malignant.