Ginsberg

 

Never passing the cashier
in the world who knows
everything:

cans, tomatoes, artichokes,
every letter, every flower,
every leaf—
every price—

not unlike
Netherworld
Customs officers,
checking all
on arrival—

even Ginsberg’s
eternal nemesis,
husbands, wives—

But did he ever
take these letter ones
seriously,

this new American
Dionysian—
who saddled the US
from both sides,

a Great Nether King,
Lover of the Dead,
taking all in—

passing cans, tomatoes,
bottles, books, artichokes,
every letter, every flower,
every leaf

of the American Century,
knowing despite
or because of
hangovers in the Big Apple
or Frisco,

he, like great Whitman,
must get all articles
of inventories right—

for who else could,
like him,
compose poems
as litanies of lists,
itemized returns—?

Passing endlessly
shade to shade—
in the world below,
Great Cashier
ahead of time,

who needs to know
everything,
must register
all or anyone—

never passed the cashier
who knew everything
like him about
the Great American Century,

the American Dream,
freedom, love,
Lethe in Lost and Found—

tomatoes, artichokes,
plastic breads,
engineered strawberries
tasting like air—

husbands, wives,
open to it all:
did they know
“wife materials”
on shopping carousels—?

Yet never passing
the cashier who knows
really everything—

that’s why now
all’s watched,
new nuclear plants
needed

to keep data centers
humming,
always cooled—

tracking every soul,
non-soul, every letter
written or erased,
every flower, leaf,

everyone’s secrets,
even those he doesn’t know
himself, the more they lie
about everything,
however trivial—

every stream
rushing to dream
the American Dream—

Then, at another gate,
passing under
an old Marine veteran’s
watchful eye,

we talked of life,
its forks, where
society missed
its turn—
the great error, he said:
“The hippies…
they ruined everything…”