From “Wichita Vortex Sutra” by Allen Ginsberg (1966)

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 the War Gods!
A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear
        imagining that throng of Selves
            that make this nation one body of Prophecy
                languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of
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 Congress legislate its own delight,
            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

Publicado por

Gabriel Rojo

Gabriel Rojo holds a degree in English from the UTN-INSPT, where he currently teaches 20th Century Culture, Language and Didactics. Gabriel is also a recording artist. His musical project, "The Tape Recorders," employs vocal samples from beloved poets and thinkers.


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