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[beatmovement]

Hobo - Könnygáz Rag (Allen Ginsberg - Tear Gas Rag)

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plátói pofázások egész garmadája görnyedt át tűzlétrán végig az ablakpárkányon, lefele lefele az Empire State Buildingen, ki a Holdból yacketyakkingolva meg ordítozva-hányva suttogva tényeket, emlékeket, anekdotákat besokallva a sok korház-börtön-háborútól komplett szellemek értek el teljes resetet ahogy heteket és éjszakákat izzó szemmel taccsantak a járdán a zsinagóga elé kétértelmű képeslapokat küldtek az elveszett Zen New Jerseyből vagy az Atlantic City Hallról szenvedve Keletet élték a Tanger-i húsbontó gépeket és Kína fejfájásait a szemétdomb alatt Newark szánalmasan berendezett szobáiból akik bóklászva fel s alá éjfélkor a pályaudvaron tűnődve merre de mentek. nem hagyták tört szívük se hátra vagon-vagon. vagon-vagon. és csak gyújtották a cigiket a suhanó hófödte tájba telepedő magányos farmok látványára akik tanulgatták ki is Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross párhuzamosan küldve a telepátiát per a bop kabbalát csupán mert a Kozmosz Kanzaszban érzékien vibrált a talpuk alatt akik magukba járták Idiaho utcáit, kutatva azokat a víziós indián angyalokat akik víziós indián angyalok voltak a kik azt hitték őrültek mert Baltimore szférafelettien csillogott képükbe a kik limuzinokba szakadtak Oklahoma Elnökével míg odakint ömlött a téli / éjféli kisvárosi esők neon impulzusa akiket elcsavart az éhség és a magány keresztül Houstonon, kutatva jazzt vagy szext vagy levest követve a zseni Spaniard eszmefuttatásait Amerikáról és a Mindenségről, mely oly reménytelen volt hogy vissza is rongyoltak Afrikába akik Mexikói vulkánokba baszatták maguk, nem hagyva hátra mást mint overált meg lávát meg hamuját a költészetnek beterítve Chicagót kik a Nyugati Parton feltűnve néztek az FBI szemébe bozontosan, rövidnaciban, barnára sülve, szexi pacifista szemeikkel pislogva a szórólapok alól kik alkarjukba égették a cigit a büdös Kapitalizmus kábszeres füstje elleni tiltakozásul akik SZUPERKOMMUNISTA újságot szórtak az Union Square-en majd könnyre alázottan, meztelen a sivalkodó szirénákba jajgatva. meg jajgatva Los Alamosban meg a Staten Szigeten - ugyancsak jajgatva

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Howl láttam nemzedékem legjobb elméit kiégni mint a picsa meztelen rinyálni a következő adagért végigvánszorogva sok szutykos hajnalon voltak köztük angyalfejű hipszterek akik mindenáron el akarták érni a mennyei csatlakozást s szerelvényekként robogtak a gépéjszakában voltak csórók és mitugrászok és hollószeműek akik hülyére szívták magukat a természetellenes sötétben így tudták csak befogadni az andalító jazz-zenét voltak akik egész a Mennyekig cipelték agyukat hogy ott esküdjenek örök hűséget Mohameddnek menekülve a nyomorult padlásszobákból voltak akik jéghidegen égő szemekkel szaladtak végig egyetemeken flesselve Arkanzaszt és Blake-féle tragédiákat a háborút váró buzgó bólogatók között voltak akiket kicsaptak mert őrültek voltak pedig csak polgárpukkasztó ódákat posztoltak a koponya belső üzenőfalára voltak akik borotválatlan szobáikban égették a pénzt alsógatyában a szemetes fölött hallgatva a beszűrődő Terrort a falakon túl voltak, akiket Larendóból visszafele füleltek le mert öveik alatt rekeszben állt a marihuána azt akarták becsempészni New Yorkba voltak akik csak ették a tüzet és itták a terpentint kicicomázott hotelekben végig a Paradicsom Völgyében, halál, vagy purgatórium maradt csonka torzóikból utánuk álmok, drogok, megébredő lidércnyomás alkohol, és fasz és végtelen mulatság minősíthetetlenül vakon botorkálva végig a rázkódó felhők útjain felvillanyózott elmét tolva végig Kanada és Paterson titkos zugain kizuhanva a mozdulatlan Időből kaktuszlevet szürcsölve a csarnokok, hátsó kertek, temetők hajnalán bort vedelve a tetők felett, túl minden csillogó kirakaton, neonon villogó közlekedési lámpán, túl a napon, holdan és fán vibrálva a Brooklyni téli szürkületben az agy kegyes kegyéért esedezve akik végtelen táncokhoz láncolva maguk a Battery és Bronx metróvonalon suhantak végig az amfetaminon míg a kerekek nyígása és gyerekek sírása teljesen le nem hozta őket az életről s állatkertet nem épített köréjük a tönkretett de ragyogó ősi fény helyett akik megsüllyedve egész éjjel, a beszűrődő tengeralattjáró-fénnyel ültek poshadt sörük felett délután, túl minden letargián hallgatva a hidrogén-végitélet tikktakkolását akik csak beszéltek végtelen hetven órákat padoktól kocsmákig, a Bellevue-ig, a múzeumig, a Broklyn híd-ig ja meg vissza plátói pofázások egész garmadája

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I am waiting for my case to come up   

and I am waiting

for a rebirth of wonder

and I am waiting for someone

to really discover America

and wail

and I am waiting   

for the discovery

of a new symbolic western frontier   

and I am waiting   

for the American Eagle

to really spread its wings

and straighten up and fly right

and I am waiting

for the Age of Anxiety

to drop dead

and I am waiting

for the war to be fought

which will make the world safe

for anarchy

and I am waiting

for the final withering away

of all governments

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

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Ginsberg_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?

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"HISTORY OF THE AIRPLANE" And the Wright brothers said they thought they had invented something that could make peace on earth (if the wrong brothers didn't get hold of it) when their wonderful flying machine took off at Kitty Hawk into the kingdom of birds but the parliament of birds was freaked out by this man-made bird and fled to heaven And then the famous Spirit of Saint Louis took off eastward and flew across the Big Pond with Lindy at the controls in his leather helmet and goggles hoping to sight the doves of peace but he did not Even though he circled Versailles And then the famous Yankee Clipper took off in the opposite direction and flew across the terrific Pacific but the pacific doves were frighted by this strange amphibious bird and hid in the orient sky And then the famous Flying Fortress took off bristling with guns and testosterone to make the world safe for peace and capitalism but the birds of peace were nowhere to be found before or after Hiroshima And so then clever men built bigger and faster flying machines and these great man-made birds with jet plumage flew higher than any real birds and seemed about to fly into the sun and melt their wings and like Icarus crash to earth And the Wright brothers were long forgotten in the high-flying bombers that now began to visit their blessings on various Third Worlds all the while claiming they were searching for doves of peace And they kept flying and flying until they flew right into the 21st century and then one fine day a Third World struck back and stormed the great planes and flew them straight into the beating heart of Skyscraper America where there were no aviaries and no parliaments of doves and in a blinding flash America became a part of the scorched earth of the world And a wind of ashes blows across the land And for one long moment in eternity There is chaos and despair And buried loves and voices Cries and whispers Fill the air Everywhere

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Frank O'Hara For James Dean Welcome me, if you will, as the ambassador of a hatred who knows its cause and does not envy you your whim of ending him. For a young actor I am begging peace, gods. Alone in the empty streets of New York I am its dirty feet and head and he is dead. He has banged into your wall of air, your hubris, racing towards your heights and you have cut him from your table which is built, how unfairly for us! not on trees, but on clouds. I speak as one whose filth is like his own, of pride and speed and your terrible example nearer than the siren's speech, a spirit eager for the punishment which is your only recognition. Peace! to be true to a city of rats and to love the envy of the dreary, smudged mouthers of an arcane dejection smoldering quietly in the perception of hopelessness and scandal at unnatural vigor. Their dreams are their own, as are the toilets of a great railway terminal and the sequins of a very small, very fat eyelid. I take this for myself, and you take up the thread of my life between your teeth, tin thread and tarnished with abuse, you still shall hear as long as the beast in me maintains its taciturn power to close my lids in tears, and my loins move yet in the ennobling pursuit of all the worlds you have left me alone in, and would be the dolorous distraction from, while you summon your army of anguishes which is a million hooting blood vessels on the eyes and in the ears at the instant before death. And the menials who surrounded him critically, langorously waiting for a final impertinence to rebel and enslave him, starlets and other glittering things in the hog-wallow, lunging mireward in their inane moth-like adoration of niggardly cares and stagnant respects paid themselves, you spared, as a hospital preserves its orderlies. Are these your latter-day saints, these unctuous starers, muscular somnambulists, these stages for which no word's been written hollow enough, these exhibitionists in well-veiled booths, these navel-suckers? Is it true that you high ones, celebrated among amorous flies, hated the prodigy and invention of his nerves? To withhold your light from painstaking paths! your love should be difficult, as his was hard. Nostrils of pain down avenues of luminous spit-globes breathe in the fragrance of his innocent flesh like smoke, the temporary lift, the post-cancer excitement of vile manners and veal-thin lips, obscure in the carelessness of your scissors. Men cry from the grave while they still live and now I am this dead man's voice, stammering, a little in the earth. I take up the nourishment of his pale green eyes, out of which I shall prevent flowers from growing, your flowers.

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something like that

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Collier - The Rise of Selfishness in America - p. 192

In fact the communes were facing precisely the problems that over thousands of years human culture was developed to solve: distribution of power, assignment of sexual rights, and division of labour. But what they were committed most of them to the structureless society in which nobody told anybody what to do.

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Gary Snyder Makings

I watched my father’s friends Roll cigarettes, when I was young Leaning against our black tarpaper shack. The wheatstraw grimy in their hands Talking of cars and tools and jobs Everybody out of work the quick flip back 
And thin lick stick of the tongue, 
And a twist, and a fingernail flare of match. 
I watched and wished my overalls 
Had hammer-slings like theirs.

The war and after the war With jobs and money came, My father lives in a big suburban home. It seems like since the thirties I’m the only one stayed poor. It’s good to sit in the Window of my shack, Roll tan wheatstraw and tobacco Round and smoke.

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Mad magazine longtime editor Al Feldstein said in 1994 "When Charles Wilson (Eisenhower's Secretary of Defence) said 'What is good for GM is good for America,' we were saying 'Well, maybe not.'

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Lawrence Ferlinghetti - A Coney Island of Mind (1955)

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Miller - The 60's Communes - p. 5

The Beats, more than any other identifiable grouping, pointed alternative culture in new directions that would soon be embraced on a much wider scale. Murray Bookchin, the anarchist whose career as a public dissenter bridged Beat and Hip, found specific Beat origins for environmental concern, the psychedelic experience, communes, the health food revolution, Hip art forms, and other cultural innovations associated with the 1960s. Not every innovative idea was without antecedents.