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Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 104

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104

of the human vehicle

which no Titsworth of insurance will customize for resale—

So home, traveler, past the newspaper language factory

under Union Station railroad bridge on Douglas

to the center of the Vortex, calmly returned

to Hotel Eaton—

Carry Nation began the war on Vietnam here

with an angry smashing ax

attacking Wine—

Here fifty years ago, by her violence

began a vortex of hatred that defoliated the Mekong Delta—

Proud Wichita! vain Wichita

cast the first stone!—

That murdered my mother

who died of the communist anticommunist psychosis

in the madhouse one decade long ago

complaining about wires of masscommunication in her head

and phantom political voices in the air

besmirching her girlish character.

Many another has suffered death and madness

in the Vortex from Hydraulic

to the end of 17th—enough!

The war is over now—

Except for the souls

held prisoner in Niggertown

still pining for love of your tender white bodies O children of Wichita!

February 14, 1966

Auto Poesy: On the Lam from Bloomington

Setting out East on rain bright highways

Indianapolis, police cars speeding past

gas station—Stopped for matches

PLOWL of Silence,

Street bulbs flash cosmic blue—darkness!

POW, lights flash on again!

pavement-gleam

Mobil station pumps lit in rain

ZAP, darkness, highway power failure

rain hiss

traffic lights dead black—

Ho! Dimethyl Triptamine flashing circle vibrations

center Spiked—

Einsteinian Mandala,

Spectrum translucent,

… Television eyeball dots in treehouse Ken Kesey’s

Power failure inside the head,

neural apparatus crackling—

So drift months later past

Eli Lilly pharmaceuticals’ tower walls

asleep in early morning dark outside Indianapolis

Street lamps lit humped along downtown Greenfield

News from Dallas, Dirksen declareth

“Vietnam Protesters have forgotten the lessons of History”

Across Ohio River, noon

old wire bridge, auto graveyards,

Washington town covered with rust—hm—

February 1966

Kansas City to Saint Louis

Leaving K.C. Mo. past Independence past Liberty

Charlie Plymell’s memories of K.C. renewed

The Jewel-box Review,

white-wigged fat camps yakking abt

Georgie Washington and Harry T.

filthier than any poetry reading I ever gave

applauded

by the police negro wives Mafia subsidized

To East St. Louis on the broad road

Highway 70 crammed with trucks

Last night almost broke my heart dancing to

Cant Get No Satisfaction

lotsa beer & slept naked in the guest room—

Now

Sunlit wooded hills overhang the highway

rolling toward the Sex Factories of Indiana—

Automobile graveyard, red cars dumped

bleeding under empty skies—

Burchfield’s paintings, Walker Evans’ photos,

a white Victorian house on a hill—

Trumble & Bung of chamber music

pianoesque on radio—midwest culture

before rock and roll

If I knew twenty years ago what I know now

I coulda led a symphony orchestra in Minneapolis

& worn a tuxedo

Heart to heart, the Kansas voice of Ella Mae

“are you afraid of growing old,

afraid you’ll no longer be attractive to your husband?”

“… I dont see any reason” says the radio

“for those agitators— Why dont they move in with the negroes? We’ve been separated all along, why change things now? But I’ll hang up, some other Martian might want to call in, who has another thought.”

The Voice of Leavenworth

echoing thru space to the car dashboard

“… causes and agitations, then, then they’re doing the work of the communists as J. Edgar Hoover says, and many of these people are people with uh respectable, bility, of a cloak of respectability that shows uh uh teachers professors and students …”

hollow voice, a minister

breathing thru the telephone

104

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