Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 46
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What hope have the children in their prams passing the white silent doors of the houses—only the Public Library knows.
Premonition in the dentist’s chair—mechanical voices over the radio singing Destination Moon—mysterious sorrow for the moon of this forgotten universe—humans, singing, singing—of the moon—for money?—except it’s the imbecilic canned voice of eternity rocking & rolling in Space making invisible announcements—
The Doc’s agreed to the experiment—novocaine, my mouth’s begun to disappear first—like the Cheshire Cat.
BACK: Endless cycles of conflict happening in nothingness
make it impossible to grasp for the perfection
which does not exist
but is not necessary
so everything is final and occurs over & over again
till we will finally blank out as expected.
The First Note of Creation:
the only one there could be if there
weren’t nothing but
an idea that there might
not be nothing—
Sherman Adams will resign
I’m holding my breath
the shiver run thru my belly
the nurse will be singing I love you
between breaths the Buddhists are right
a tear
siffle in the cheek
the possibility escape
the eye glare thru glasses
Nothing grasped at & ungrasped as its trance thought passes
I take my pen in hand
The same old way sings Sinatra
I’m writing to You give me understanding
I pray sings Sinatra
Can I never glimpse the round we have made?
Write me as soon as able sings Sinatra
O Lord burn me out of existence.
You’ve got a long body sings Sinatra
I refuse to breathe and return to form
I’ve seen every moment in advance before
I’ve turned my neck a million times
& written this note
& been greeted with fire and cheers
I refuse to stop
—thinking—
What Perfection has escaped me?
An endless cycle of possibilities clashing in Nothing
with each mistake in the writing inevitable from the beginning of time
The doctor’s phone number is Pilgrim 1–0000
Are you calling me, Nothing?
The universe be smashed
to smithereens by the oncoming
atomic explosions with
Eisenhower as once President
of a place called U.S.
Gregory wrote the Bomb!
Russians dream of Mars &
when the cosmos goes and
all consciousness after the
final explosion of imagination
in the void it won’t have
made any difference that it
all both did and did not
happen, whatever it was once
thought to be so real—
it will be—gone.
O that I might die on the spot
I’ll have to go back
any prophecy might have been right
it’s all a great Exception
My bus will arrive as foretold
it’s the end of another September
war is on the radio ahead
we are all going to the inevitable beauty of doom
a firebox stands sentient before the library
it’s hot sun now I’m crazy scribbling
—It began abstract and mindless nowhere
planets of thought have passed
it’ll end where it began
I want to return to normal
—but there is no changelessness
but in Nirvana
Or is there
Ever Rest, Lord?—and what sages
know and sit.
I’m a spy
in Bloomfield on a park bench
—frightened by buses—
What’s that bee doing hanging round my shoe? my borrowed and inevitable shoe?
A vast red truck moving with boxes of dead television sets in the back
American flag waving over the library
On the bus I sit by a negress
This is an explosion
IV
Back in the same old black hole
where Possibility closes the
last door
and the Great Void remains
… a glass
in the dust reflecting the sun,
fragment of a bottle
that never knew it existed
… under a tree
that sleeps all winter
till it grows its eyes
in May heat
and flowers upward with a thousand
green sensations
dies, and forgets itself in Snow
… Phantom in Phantom
If we didn’t exist, God
would have to create this
to leave no room for complaint
by any of the birds & bees
who might have missed their
chance (to be)
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