Thursday, June 16, 2011

Eamonn Lorigan

Editor's note: in Eamonn's original manuscript a few of the lines are longer than they appear here, but the only way to reproduce them on Blogger is to make the font unreadably small. I'll be reviewing with Eamonn later whether the adapted form is acceptable, but in the meantime here's a taster of what I think is a fantastic poem.





On Meeting Allen Ginsberg at the Supermarket


I.
I see Allen Ginsberg nightly in the supermarkets of my mind:
Old hoary faggot hymning America; spreading Zen among the canataloupes.
Hey Al, we are at war again I say. The Texans keep claiming their birthright of oil in Iraq, like Jacob
trumping Esau in Celebrity Poker Torah. You smile. I fucked
Jack Kerouac in the ass you say & disappear among the beets & onions. Borscht from your mad mother’s kitchen beckons.
Besides, you whisper, whole blessed Bible = fathers betraying sons.
Abraham Isaac Esau Cain Saul David. Tetragrammaton & only begotten son in pain screaming on hillside.
Christian Country. Why we send our own kids off to die…


…Where’s Moloch? you ask me suddenly, quizzical behind thick glasses, grizzled Kaballah shaman beard. I need some Moloch for my borscht.
My ghost lives here in America where all the beautiful boys with low-rider cocks still live and jive, sweet asses shaking like old man's hands.
I ride the New York Boston Manchester New Hampshire nights, blessing furtive blowjobs & declaring all things holy.
I am the Pope Benedict of blowjobs.
I am the Ayatollah of balls slapping against butts.
I am the Mahatma of WMD’s
I am the murdered conscience of America:
Pretty good work if you can get it. Pretty
good job for an old, dead, holy homo jew. & even ghosts
have got to eat: good cold immigrant Russian soups
made of roots & all things underground
& decent deli...


II.
…Walk home with me, old Comrade.
Walk with me through pooled yellow streetlamps of East Village
storefronts lit against the night like angels smoking Marlboros,
scattering the living & all the old ghosts with our raucous subversive laughter.
Look, there’s Whitman, father of us all, masturbating on a streetcorner.
& Neal & Jack &; all your hipster angels, who took midcentury
by the throat until it turned &; killed them all with drink & drugs, & almighty Nixon, leaving behind fuck-all.
Look: wild dogs cross Third Avenue, baring their teeth at us. Rats move beneath the city. Around us, buildings tremble &; hum; cockroaches sing from their secret hymnals.
Walk with me, Allen, & let’s discuss madness &; the Buddha. Tell me how to reach Satori even though I’m fat, middle-aged with disrespectful children.
Say, all disrespectful children are holy. Everything is holy.
Say, In civil war, old Bearded homo-
sexual outcast Whitman nursed & healed the sick.
And there’s still time to heal, that life goes on forever like the Ganges.


Link arms with me, Allen Ginsberg, & let’s walk together
through the lightening city, to lean at last on rails
above the East River, to watch the morning rise over Whitman’s Brooklyn:
White sky, clouds and sea-birds in the distance, the sun reaching up
past a brown horizon of buildings to touch our faces together lost and lonely amid so many lives.

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