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

the ravine, a fire burning by the side

porch and a few tired souls hunched over

in black leather jackets. In the huge

wooden house, a yellow chandelier

at 3 A.M. the blast of loudspeakers

hi-fi Rolling Stones Ray Charles Beatles

Jumping Joe Jackson and twenty youths

dancing to the vibration thru the floor,

a little weed in the bathroom, girls in scarlet

tights, one muscular smooth skinned man

sweating dancing for hours, beer cans

bent littering the yard, a hanged man

sculpture dangling from a high creek branch,

children sleeping softly in their bedroom bunks.

And 4 police cars parked outside the painted

gate, red lights revolving in the leaves.

December 1965

Continuation of a Long Poem of These States

S.F. Southward

Stage-lit streets

     Downtown Frisco whizzing past, buildings

     ranked by Freeway balconies

          Bright Johnnie Walker neon

               sign Christmastrees

And Christmas and its eves

     in the midst of the same deep wood

          as every sad Christmas before, surrounded

                    by forests of stars—

Metal columns, smoke pouring cloudward,

          yellow-lamp horizon

               warplants move, tiny

          planes lie in Avionic fields—

Meanwhile Working Girls sort mail into the red slot

     Rivers of newsprint to soldiers’ Vietnam

     Infantry Journal, Kanackee

          Social Register, Wichita Star

And Postoffice Christmas the same brown place

          mailhandlers’ black fingers

          dusty mailbags filled

               1948 N.Y. Eighth Avenue was

     when Peter drove the mailtruck 1955

               from Rincon Annex—

Bright lights’ windshield flash,

     adrenalin shiver in shoulders

               Around the curve

     crawling a long truck

          3 bright green signals on forehead

     Jeweled Bayshore passing the Coast Range

          one architect’s house light on hill crest

……………… negro voices rejoice over radio

     Moonlit sticks of tea

Moss Landing Power Plant

     shooting its cannon smoke

          across the highway, Red taillight

          speeding the white line and a mile away

     Orion’s muzzle

               raised up

                         to the center of Heaven.

December 18, 1965

These States: into L.A.

Organs and War News

     Radio static from Saigon

               “And the Glory of the Lord”

                    Newscaster Voice thru Aether—

The Truce—

     12 hours, 30 hours?

          Thirty Days, said Mansfield.

   Cars roll right lane,

     bridge lights

          rising & falling on night-slope—

     headlights cross speeding reflectors

Handel rejoicing

     chorus whine Requiem, roar in yr Auto

                    window shoulders

Memories of Christmas—

     and the deep Christmas begins:

               U.S. 101 South

The President at home

     in his swinging chair on the porch

          listening to Christmas Carols

     Vice-President returning from Far East

“Check into yourself that you are wrong—

     You may be the Wrong” says Pope His

                    Christmas Message—

Overpopulation, overpopulation

               Give me 3 acres of land

               Give my brother how much?

                    Each man have fine estate?

                    settle giant Communes?

LSD Shakti-snake settles like gas into Consciousness

               —Brightest Venus I’ve ever seen

Canyon-floor road, near

               bursting tides

     & caves they’d slept in earlier years

                    covered with green water

                      height of a man.

     A stranger walked that ground.

          Five years ago we picnicked

                    in this place.

Auto track by a mud log, Bixby Creek

     wove channels

               thru the shifting sands.

I saw the ghost of Neal

          pass by, Ferlinghetti’s ghost

The ghost of Homer roaring at the surf

          barking & wagging his tail

My own footprint at the sea’s lips