No Love for Allen Ginsberg

[the mingo]

Hey ! How come
nobody is here ?

What's happening everybody ?

move it groove it smooth it
do ya think Bob Dylan is gonna live
'til he's a hundred fucking yrs old ?

From A Buick 6 -
always liked that song
spooked me, ya know ?

I never could stir up
any love for Allen Ginsberg though
for a while there I thought
he was a construction site

[saw]

don't think twice
it's alright
howl baby howl
how ?
baby

[judih]

two words: sunflower sutra
try to stay dry-eyed through that one

[mtmynd]

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.

The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.

Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem

and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--

and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--

corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,

leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,

Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,

all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--

and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these

entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!

A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!

How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?

Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.

Allen Ginsberg

Berkeley, 1955

[the mingo]

Reply of Mingoism to Sunflower Sutra -

No one should have to plow through
all those fucking words words & words
without burying their father & mother & children first

Ol' cocksucker jus' couldn't make the beach, ya know?

[mnaz]

Well he ain't no pile of girders and a crane..

[the mingo]

'bout time you showed color - I didn't say construction equipment - I said construction site

[mnaz]

Yeah? And? Whaddya mean? They're building another Wal-mart on his ass or something? Speak up man,
Eluuucidate...

[the mingo]

You some kind of vocabulistic van morrison or something this morning or what ? - I'm going downhill mnaz bigtime and ain't nobody comin back from that shit - everybody thinks they going round & round but toward the end of the line you discover that circle business is pure horseshit and the ticket you holdin is for a linear run - that's what I mean - what the fuck you asking for meaning? I just got done telling ya it's a straight run -

[mnaz]

Sorry, I was just trying to picture what kind of construction site Ginsberg was, but I guess that doesn't really matter. Everything's always under construction or destruction in some way I guess.

Hell I'm supposed to be at work in 4 hours and I couldn't sleep. Whaddaeyeno?

I should invent more of my own vocabulary.. I think you just inspired me to do that.

[the mingo]

I'm "retired" these days and it's a joke ya know - a life of robbery & mayhem getting too old for it but I guess it keeps me from totally seizing up - discovering that it takes guts & wiles to be old in our nation - been hauling slabwood I'm buying off the Amish this year because I can't afford proper cordwood - I can get a whole lot more slabwood for $5 bucks than I can get cordwood for $50 bucks on up - folks said I'd be sorry ya know but so far I'm warm - fuck 'em - yeah make up your own vocab - I do - it can be fun

[mtmynd]

No one should have to plow through
all those fucking words words & words
without burying their father & mother & children first

You're right, el mingo, nobody "should have to plow through
all those fucking words.." and as far as I know nobody called
for everyone to read those words. But I do know that there
were plenty of folks around that gave a longevity to this piece
by Allen Ginsberg that is still around and more than likely will
continue being around because it's a damn fine piece of poetry.

[the mingo]

No one should have to plow through
all those fucking words words & words
without burying their father & mother & children first

You're right, el mingo, nobody "should have to plow through
all those fucking words.." and as far as I know nobody called
for everyone to read those words. But I do know that there
were plenty of folks around that gave a longevity to this piece
by Allen Ginsberg that is still around and more than likely will
continue being around because it's a damn fine piece of poetry.

O yeah got the Cecil this morning! Cecil Mtmynd the Cru-Sa-Der ! Well, Fuck Yeah, Mongolia all over your bad self ! Hell, Cecil, you some older than me & the both of us as dried out as we can be and last year's hay crop too ! Ya know, we had but one duty laid on us in our bitty youth and that duty was to clear every shitstained buddha the hell outta the road - a duty that now stands witness against us and what we failed to do - so here we are on the raggedy throwing stones & whatever else instead of helping each other because the trash has certainly been piled real real high, amigo, and our roads are hell of a lot shorter than they once were. You saying that there were plenty of folk gave longevity to this piece you exactly right and it shows their lack of vision exactly too. What the first readers of this "damn fine piece of poetry" or any "damn fine piece of poetry" should have done was read it, celebrate it, smile about it, have a drink or three over the fucking thing and then burned it or buried it and got on with business. So art became artifact and here we be still stuck with it and paying rent on a burden neither us or our fathers have been able to tote and still go forward upright. You know what I'm sayin, Cec. Tween you and me I wish I had never ever ever read anyone else's poetry ever - but that's not the case sad as it is and I stand soiled in & out by the experience. There should be only one word on my lips and your lips, only one thought in my mind and your mind, only one passion in my heart and your heart to consume us both - one word says it all - "Forward" forward until the light goes the fuck out.

Catch you there, amigo, Hell yeah, Mongolia.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4lkGmL2pw0

[mnaz]

Speak for yourself...

BAH!

[the mingo]

Speak for yourself...

BAH!

BAH - Bullshit Acquisition Headquarters ? / and what the hell is this speaking for myself shit ?