Thursday, September 29, 2016

Tell Me Which Regimes Make Poets Exhiled and I Will Tell You How Dead They Are

He went to see a sunset
And saved his country’s soul
By blessing a positively dead sunflower

What was the day
when Allen Ginsberg
went to the sunset
Frisco rusty hill

with Jack Kerouac
and saw the Sunflower,
the unholy battered,
dead old thing

with withered
roots below
on thoughts
of death?

It was the day
he rebuked the flower
and then he blessed
its beatitude perfect!

On that day
in a Sunflower poem
Beatnik Ginsberg saved
what was doomed and dying

alas unlike the priests,
the planners and the anti-poets,
seduced by the beauty and the speed
of American cars, cigarettes

and panties
and cracks and wings
and shopping
and high heels

with no reason to waste on sunflower odes
& no soul to see, to mind or mend or heal
or love or one to whom to sing—submit.
Thoughts of death of their own instead

against life they went to weave, plant
and plan, set on inverting their people’s
own sunflowers and deadly nothings
in reverse—and that’s what they did,

those seedless anti-poets,
grim reapers, faithless priests,
proud apparatchiks of the East,
in their way of dreaming—

of Allen’s golden hills.

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