Reductionism (1&2)

Juan Cires Martinez jcm at mat.upm.es
Fri Feb 4 07:52:25 CST 2000


> [snip]                             Currying for favor, etc., all of which
> we just don't recall secondary to the black waters of the Lethe?
> [snip]
> Where is Alan Ginzburg when we need him? (Didn't he write a supermarket
> poem that I should reference about here in this post? )

It seems Jody's memory is in better shape than it seems:

     Allen Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California" 

               What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for
     I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache
     self-conscious looking at the full moon.
               In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
     into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
               What peaches and what penumbras!  Whole families
     shopping at night!  Aisles full of husbands!  Wives in the
     avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what
     were you doing down by the watermelons?

               I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
     poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery
     boys.
               I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the
     pork chops?  What price bananas?  Are you my Angel?
               I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
     following you, and followed in my imagination by the store
     detective.
               We strode down the open corridors together in our
     solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen
     delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

               Where are we going, Walt Whitman?  The doors close in
     an hour.  Which way does your beard point tonight?
               (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the
     supermarket and feel absurd.)
               Will we walk all night through solitary streets?  The
     trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be
     lonely.

               Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love
     past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
               Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
     what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and
     you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
     disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

     Berkeley, 1955 

Saludos, Juan.



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