Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen. Страница 272
Short of breath, six pounds
overweight with water—
logged liver, gut & lung—up at 4 A.M.
reading Shakespeare.
February 4, 1997, 4:03 A.M., NYC
Death & Fame
When I die
I don’t care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter ’em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B’nai Israel Cemetery
But I want a big funeral
St. Patrick’s Cathedral, St. Mark’s Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan
First, there’s family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear’d, sister-in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren.
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan—
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya’s ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche there, Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami,
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi’s phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loori, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchin—
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
“He taught me to meditate, now I’m an old veteran of the thousand day retreat—”
“I played music on subway platforms, I’m straight but loved him he loved me”
“I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone”
“We’d lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other”
“I’d always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor”
“Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master”
“We’d talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
sleep in his captain’s bed.”
“He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy”
“I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips—”
“All I did was lay back eyes closed, he’d bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist”
“He gave great head”
So there be gossip from loves of 1946, ghost of Neal Cassady commingling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise—“You too? But I thought you were straight!”
“I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me,”
“I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly, on my prick, tickled with his tongue my behind”
“I loved the way he’d recite ‘But at my back always hear/time’s winged chariot hurrying near,’ heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow—”
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
“I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat,
seduced me didn’t want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to …”
“He couldn’t get it up but loved me,” “A clean old man,” “He made sure I came first”
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor—
Then poets & musicians—college boys’ grunge bands—age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical conductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trumpeters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger
fiddlers with dobro tambourine harmonica mandolin autoharp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60’s India, late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massachusetts surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate bibliophiles, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex
“I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist”
“Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals”
“Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink dishes, my studio guest a week in Budapest”
Thousands of readers, “Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois”
“I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet—”
“He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City”
“Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City”
“Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston 1982”
“I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there”
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors’ secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatniks & Deadheads, autographhunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of “History” except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive
February 22, 1997
Sexual Abuse
“A Nation of Finks”
—W. S. Burroughs
A voice in the kitchen light:
Sexual abuse should not be
rewarded with a wink
Sexshual abuse should not be
revarded mit a vink
Re Boston-Herald headline “Sexual Abuse Law Targets Clergy”
“Senator: Religious leaders must report child molesters”
Priests should turn each other in, fink—
So, say it in the confession box, not
over sherry at intimate dinner.
February 26, 1997, 6 A.M.
Butterfly Mind
The mind is like a butterfly
That lights upon a rose
or flutters to a stinky feces pile
swoops into smoky bus exhaust
or rests upon porch chair, a flower breathing
open & closed balancing a Tennessee breeze—
Flies to Texas for a convention
spring weeds in fields of oil rigs
Some say these rainbow wings have soul
Some say empty brain
tiny automatic large-eyed wings
that settle on the page.
January 29, 1997, 2:15 A.M., NYC
A fellow named Steven
A fellow named Steven
went to look for God
on a street that’s even
and a street that’s odd
A lifestyle clean
with music and wife