Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen - Страница 58

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                              before,—

          the teardrop in the eye to come,—

          the Fear of the Unknown—

One does not yet know whether Christ was

          God or the Devil—

     Buddha is more reassuring.

Yet the experiments must continue!

Every possible combination of Being—all

     the old ones! all the old Hindu

          Sabahadabadie-pluralic universes

               ringing in Grandiloquent

                    Bearded Juxtaposition,

          with all their minarets and moonlit

               towers enlaced with iron

                    or porcelain embroidery,

                         all have existed—

                    and the Sages with

white hair who sat crosslegged on

               a female couch—

     hearkening to whatever music came

          from out the Wood or Street,

     whatever bird that whistled in the

                    Marketplace,

          whatever note the clock struck to say

                    Time—

     whatever drug, or aire, they breathed

          to make them think so deep

               or simply hear what passed,

like a car passing in the 1960 street

     beside the Governmental Palace

               in Peru, this Lima

          year I write.

                    Kerouac! I salute yr

wordy beard. Sad Prophet!

     Salutations and low bows from

baggy pants and turbaned mind and horned foot

     arched eyebrows & Jewish Smile—

One single specimen of Eternity—each

               of us poets.

Breake the Rhythm! (too much pentameter)

     … My god what solitude are you in Kerouac now?

          —heard the whoosh of carwheels in the 1950 rain—

And every bell went off on time,

And everything that was created

Rang especially in view of the Creation

For

This is the end of the creation

This is the redemption Spoken of

This is the view of the Created

by all the Drs, nurses, etc. of

                                        creation;

i.e.,—

The unspeakable passed over my head for

     the second time.

          and still can’t say it!

i.e. we are the sweepings of the moon

we’re what’s left over from perfection—

The universe is an OLD mistake

I’ve understood a million times before

and always come back to the same

          scissor brainwave—

The

Sooner or later all Consciousness will

          be eliminated

               because Consciousness is

     a by-product of—

                    (Cotton & N₂O)

          Drawing saliva back from the tongue—

Christ! you struggle to understand

          One consciousness

     & be confronted with Myriads—

after a billion years

     with the same ringing in the ears

          and pterodactyl-smile of Oops

                    Creation,

     known it all before.

     A Buddha as of old, with sirens of

whatever machinery making cranging noises in

                    the street

     and pavement light reflected in the facade

          RR Station window in a

               dinky port in Backwash

     of the murky old forgotten

               fabulous whatever

                    Civilization of

                         Eternity,—

     with the RR Sta Clock ring midnight,

     as of now,

          & waiting for the 6th

               you write your

                    Word,

     and end on the last chime—and remember

          This one twelve was struck

                    before,

               and never again; both.

……………… I stood on the balcony

               waiting for an explosion

          of Total Consciousness of the All—

                    being Ginsberg sniffing ether in Lima.

               The same struggle of Mind, to reach the

                         Thing

               that ends its process with an X

                    comprehending its befores and afters,

               unexplainable to each, except in a prophetic

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