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(gunin@mv.ru)
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1997-
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1997
O dear sweet rosy
unattainable desire
. . .how sad, no way
to change the mad
cultivated asphodel, the
visible reality. . .
and skin's appalling
petals-- how inspired
to be so Iying in the living
room drunk naked
and dreaming, in the absence
of electricity . . .
over and over eating the low root
of the asphodel,
gray fate . . .
rolling in generation
on the flowery couch
as on a bank in Arden--
my only rose tonite's the treat
of my own nudity.
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
-- cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
-- must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
Drinking my tea Without sugar-
No difference.
The sparrow shits
upside down -ah! my brain & eggs
Mayan head in a Pacific driftwood bole -Someday I'll live in N.Y.
Looking over my shoulder my behind was covered with cherry blossoms.
Winter Haiku
I didn't know the names of the flowers-now my garden is gone.
I slapped the mosquito and missed. What made me do that?
Reading haiku I am unhappy, longing for the Nameless.
A frog floating in the drugstore jar: summer rain on grey pavements.
On the porch in my shorts; auto lights in the rain.
Another year has past-the world is no different.
The first thing I looked for in my old garden was The Cherry Tree.
My old desk: the first thing I looked for in my house.
My early journal: the first thing I found in my old desk.
My mother's ghost: the first thing I found in the living room.
I quit shaving but the eyes that glanced at me remained in the mirror.
The madman emerges from the movies: the street at lunchtime.
Cities of boys are in their graves, and in this town...
Lying on my side in the void: the breath in my nose.
On the fifteenth floor the dog chews a bone- Screech of taxicabs.
A hardon in New York, a boy in San Fransisco.
The moon over the roof, worms in the garden. I rent this house.
Last nite I dreamed of T.S. Eliot welcoming me to the land of dream Sofas
couches fog in England Tea in his digs Chelsea rainbows curtains on his
windows, fog seeping in the chimney but a nice warm house and an incredibly
sweet hooknosed Eliot he loved me, put me up, gave me a couch to sleep on,
conversed kindly, took me serious asked my opinion on Mayakovsky I read him
Corso Creeley Kerouac advised Burroughs Olson Huncke the bearded lady in the
Zoo, the intelligent puma in Mexico City 6 chorus boys from Zanzibar who
chanted in wornout polygot Swahili, and the rippling rhythms of Ma Rainey
and Rachel Lindsay. On the Isle of the Queen we had a long evening's
conversation Then he tucked me in my long red underwear under a silken
blanket by the fire on the sofa gave me English dottle and went off sadly to
his bed, Saying ah Ginsberg I am glad to have met a fine young man like you.
At last, I woke ashamed of myself. Is he that good and kind? Am I that
great? What's my motive dreaming his manna? What English Department would
that impress? What failure to be perfect prophet's made up here? I dream of
my kindness to T.S. Eliot wanting to be a historical poet and share in his
finance of Imagery- overambitious dream of eccentric boy. God forbid my evil
dreams come true. Last nite I dreamed of Allen Ginsberg. T.S. Eliot would've
been ashamed of me.
Under The World There's A Lot Of Ass A Lot Of Cunt
a lot of mouths and cocks, under the world there's a lot of come, and a lot
of saliva dripping into brooks, There's a lot of Shit under the world,
flowing beneath cities into rivers, a lot of urine floating under the world,
a lot of snot in the world's industrial nostrils, sweat under world's iron
arm, blood gushing out of the world's breast, endless lakes of tears, seas
of sick vomit rushing between the hemispheres floating towards Sargasso, old
oily rags and brake fluids, human gasoline-- Under the world there's pain,
fractured thighs, napalm burning in black hair, phosphorus eating elbows to
bone insectiside contaminating oceantide, plastic dolls floating across
Atlantic, Toy soldiers crowding the Pacific, B-52 bombers choking jungle air
with vaportrails and brilliant flares
Robot drones careening over rice terraces dropping cluster grenades,
plastic pellets spray into flesh,
dragontooth mines & jellied fires fall on straw roofs and water buffalos,
perforating village huts with barbed shrapnel, trenchpits filled with
fuel-gas-poisen'd explosive powders-- Under the world there's broken skulls,
crushed feet, cut eyeballs,
severed fingers, slashed jaws,
Dysentry, homeless millions, tortured hearts, empty souls.
We Rise On Sun Beams And Fall In The Night
Dawn's orb orange-raw shining over Palisades bare crowded branches bush up
from marshes-- New Jersey with my father riding automobile highway to Newark
Airport-- Empire State's spire, horned buildingtops, Manhattan rising as in
W. C. Williams' eyes between wire trestles-- trucks sixwheeled steady
rolling overpass beside New York-- I am here tiny under sun rising in vast
white sky, staring thru skeleton new buildings, with pen in hand awake ...
Whom bomb? We bomb them! Whom bomb? We bomb them! Whom bomb? We bomb them!
Whom bomb? We bomb them!
Whom bomb? You bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you!
Whom bomb? You bomb you!
What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb? What do we do?
Who do we bomb? What do we do? Who do we bomb?
What do we do? You bomb! You bomb them! What do we do? You bomb! You bomb
them! What do we do? We bomb! We bomb them! What do we do? We bomb! We bomb
them!
Whom bomb? We bomb you! Whom bomb? We bomb you! Whom bomb? You bomb you!
Whom bomb? You bomb you!
At 66, just learning how to take care of my body Wake cheerful 8 a.m. &
write in a notebook rising from my bed side naked leaving a naked boy asleep
by the wall mix miso mushroom leeks & winter squash breakfast, Check
bloodsugar, clean teeth exactly, brush, toothpick, floss, mouthwash oil my
feet, put on white shirt white pants white sox sit solitary by the sink a
moment before brushing my hair, happy not yet to be a corpse.
When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in
Manhattan
First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt
Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-in-law
blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren,
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan--
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there
Sakyong
Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri &
Suzuki Roshi's phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama
Tarchen --
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other,
innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day
retreat -- "
"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me"
"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"
"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly
arms round each other"
"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies
would be on the floor"
"Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master"
"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in
his captain's bed."
"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"
"I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my
stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- "
"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth &
fingers along my waist"
"He gave great head"
So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commingling
with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!"
"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."
"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and
affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick, tickled
with his
tongue my behind"
"l loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged
chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow -- "
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
"I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his
walk-up flat,
seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again
never wanted to... "
"He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made sure I
came first"
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor--
Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock star
Beatles,
faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical conductors, unknown high Jazz
music composers, funky trumpeters, bowed bass & french horn black
geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin
autoharp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late
fauve
Tuscan painter-poets, Classicdraftsman Massachusets surreal jackanapes
with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from
American provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate bibliophiles,
sex liberation troops nay
armies, ladies of either sex
"I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway,
true artist"
"Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide
hospitals"
"Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a
week
in Budapest"
Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois"
"I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- "
"He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City"
"Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City"
"Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982"
"I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like
me out there"
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photography
aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to
witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-hunters,
distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive
Last-modified: Fri, 16 Aug 2002 15:49:03 GMT