Collected Poems 1947-1997 - Ginsberg Allen (книги серии онлайн .TXT) 📗

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)