1. Personals Ad

    Poet professor in autumn years
    seeks helpmate companion protector friend
    young lover w/empty compassionate soul
    exuberant spirit, straightforward handsome
    athletic physique & boundless mind, courageous
    warrior who may also like women&girls, no problem,
    to share bed meditation apartment Lower East Side,
    help inspire mankind conquer world anger & guilt,
    empowered by Whitman Blake Rimbaud Ma Rainey & Vivaldi,
    familiar respecting Art’s primordial majesty, priapic carefree
    playful harmless slave or master, mortally tender passing swift time,
    photographer, musician, painter, poet, yuppie or scholar
    Find me here in New York alone with the Alone
    going to lady psychiatrist who says Make time in your life
    for someone you can call darling, honey, who holds you dear
    can get excited & lay his head on your heart in peace.

    By Allen Ginsberg.

     
  2. America

    America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
    America two dollars and twentyseven cents January 17, 1956.
    I can’t stand my own mind.
    America when will we end the human war?
    Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
    I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
    I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.
    America when will you be angelic?
    When will you take off your clothes?
    When will you look at yourself through the grave?
    When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
    America why are your libraries full of tears?
    America when will you send your eggs to India?
    I’m sick of your insane demands.
    When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
    America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
    Your machinery is too much for me.
    You made me want to be a saint.
    There must be some other way to settle this argument.
    Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.
    Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
    I’m trying to come to the point.
    I refuse to give up my obsession.
    America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
    America the plum blossoms are falling.
    I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for murder.
    America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
    America I used to be a communist when I was a kid I’m not sorry.
    I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
    I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
    When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
    My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
    You should have seen me reading Marx.
    My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
    I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
    I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
    America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over from Russia.
    I’m addressing you.
    Are you going to let your emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
    I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
    I read it every week.
    Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
    I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
    It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.
    It occurs to me that I am America.
    I am talking to myself again.

    Asia is rising against me.
    I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.
    I’d better consider my national resources.
    My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.
    I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underprivileged who live in my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
    I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
    My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

    America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
    I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they’re all different sexes.
    America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
    America free Tom Mooney
    America save the Spanish Loyalists
    America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
    America I am the Scottsboro boys.
    America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother Bloor the Silk-strikers’ Ewig-Weibliche made me cry I once saw the Yiddish orator Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have been a spy.
    America you don’t really want to go to war.
    America its them bad Russians.
    Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
    The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take our cars from out our garages.
    Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
    That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
    America this is quite serious.
    America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
    America is this correct?
    I’d better get right down to the job.
    It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
    America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

    Berkeley, January 17, 1956


    By Allen Ginsberg.

     
  3. Ginsberg

    No blame. Anyone who wrote Howl and Kaddish
    earned the right to make any possible mistake
    for the rest of his life.
    I just wish I hadn’t made this mistake with him.
    It was during the Vietnam war
    and he was giving a great protest reading
    in Washington Square Park
    and nobody wanted to leave.
    So Ginsberg got the idea, “I’m going to shout
    ‘the war is over’ as loud as I can,” he said
    “and all of you run over the cityin different directions
    yelling the war is over, shout it in offices,
    shops, everywhere and when enough people
    believe the war is over
    why, not even the politicians
    will be able to keep it going.”
    I thought it was a great idea at the time,
    a truly poetic idea.
    So when Ginsberg yelled I ran down the street
    and leaned in the doorway
    of the sort of respectable down on its luck cafeteria
    where librarians and minor clerks have lunch
    and I yelled “the war is over.”And a little old lady looked up
    from her cottage cheese and fruit salad.
    She was so ordinary she would have been invisible
    except for the terrible lightfilling her face as she whispered
    “My son. My son is coming home.”
    I got myself out of there and was sick in some bushes.
    That was the first time I believed there was a war.

    by Julia Vinograd
    Submitted By thebookcoversproject