Ginsberg WVS.mp4

Wichita Vortex Sutra (Ginsberg + Glass)

I'm an old man now, and a lonesome man in Kansas

but not afraid

to speak my lonesomeness in a car,

because not only my lonesomeness

it's Ours, all over America,

O tender fellows—

& spoken lonesomeness is Prophecy

in the moon 100 years ago or in

the middle of Kansas now.

It's not the vast plains mute our mouths

that fill at midnite with ecstatic language

when our trembling bodies hold each other

breast to breast on a mattress—

Not the empty sky that hides

the feeling from our faces

nor our skirts and trousers that conceal

the bodylove emanating in a glow of beloved skin,

white smooth abdomen down to the hair

between our legs,

It's not a God that bore us that forbid

our Being, like a sunny rose

all red with naked joy

between our eyes & bellies, yes

All we do is for this frightened thing

we call Love, want and lack—

fear that we aren't the one whose body could be

beloved of all the brides of Kansas City,

kissed all over by every boy of Wichita—

O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me—

On the bridge over Republican River

almost in tears to know

how to speak the right language—

on the frosty broad road

uphill between highway embankments

I search for the language

that is also yours—

almost all our language has been taxed by war.

Radio antennae high tension

wires ranging from Junction City across the plains—

highway cloverleaf sunk in a vast meadow

lanes curving past Abilene

to Denver filled with old

heroes of love—

to Wichita where McClure's mind

burst into animal beauty

drunk, getting laid in a car

in a neon misted street

15 years ago—

to Independence where the old man's still alive

who loosed the bomb that's slaved all human consciousness

and made the body universe a place of fear—

Now, speeding along the empty plain,

no giant demon machine

visible on the horizon

but tiny human trees and wooden houses at the sky's edge

I claim my birthright!

reborn forever as long as Man

in Kansas or other universe—Joy

reborn after the vast sadness of War Gods!

A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear

imaging the throng of Selves

that make this nation one body of Prophecy

languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of

Happiness!

I call all Powers of imagination

to my side in this auto to make Prophecy,

all Lords

of human kingdoms to come

Shambu Bharti Baba naked covered with ash

Khaki Baba fat-bellied mad with the dogs

Dehorahava Baba who moans Oh how wounded, How wounded

Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands

give up your desire

Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquility

Kali Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void

Shivananda who touches the breast and says OM

Srimata Krishnaji of Brindaban who says take for your guru

William Blake the invisible father of English visions

Sri Ramakrishna master of ecstasy eyes

half closed who only cries for his mother

Chitanya arms upraised singing & dancing his own praise

merciful Chango judging our bodies

Durga-Ma covered with blood

destroyer of battlefield illusions

million faced Tathagata gone past suffering

Preserver Harekrishna returning in the age of pain

Sacred Heart my Christ acceptable

Allah the compassionate one

Jaweh Righteous One

all Knowledge-Princes of Earth-man, all

ancient Seraphim of heavenly Desire, Devas, yogis

& holymen I chant to—

Come to my lone presence

into this Vortex named Kansas,

I lift my voice aloud,

make Mantra of American language now,

I here declare the end of the War!

Ancient days' Illusion!—

and pronounce words beginning my own millennium.

Let the States tremble,

let the nation weep,

let the President execute his own desire—

this Act done by my own voice,

nameless Mystery—

published to my own senses,

blissfully received by my own form

approved with pleasure by my sensations

manifestation of my very thought

accomplished in my own imagination

all realms within my consciousness fulfilled

60 miles from Wichita

near El Dorado,

The Golden One,

in chill earthly mist

houseless brown farmland plains rolling heavenward

in every direction

one midwinter afternoon Sunday called the day of the Lord—

Pure Spring Water gathered in one tower

where Florence is

set on a hill,

stop for tea & gas

Category:

Nonprofits & Activism

Tags:

• poem
• dylan
• kerouac
• ginsberg