Blues, Beat & Beer
terça-feira, agosto 23, 2005
  America (Allen Ginsberg)



America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven 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 and
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 our 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 goes 1400
miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underpriviliged 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 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real
mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain.
Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's 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 makes 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.

 
Comments:
Não entendo como um cara tão genial quanto o Ginsberg pode ser menos conhecido que tanta falcatrua americana que vêm parar por aqui... São as pessoas né? é são elas...todas tão burras.
 
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Christon Delàs
christon.delas@yahoo.com

"It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light."
Gary Snyder
(How Poetry Comes to Me)

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