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America (Genius Annotation)

I have a habit of directly addressing my country
in an ironic, even parodic fashion. Speedy anger
is worth about $2.27 these days,
which wasn’t even a lot back in January of 1956.
Back then, juxtaposing money and time
without any punctuation
gave us all a feeling for how things are famously
done. But today I think I’m worth three Ginsberg

I can’t stand my own skunk hour, how I anticipate
three years of declarations by Confessionalists.
My mind’s not right: like a proxy war over the Suez
or covert operations. When I was written into
the Cold War, different countries were backed
by the United States; the most recent was Russia.
I want the architects of America to shove more
fucks into atoms. Human populations don’t bother
or annoy me; I’m constantly preoccupied
with mental conditions, or knowing my mom, or
my deteriorating mind, or my genetic assumptions,
or destiny, or what is technically “right” according
to psychiatric hospitals. So just 65 more lines to go.

Perhaps the mad are actually people expressing
how society deems “America” not to exist. Angelic
speakers contemptuously, line by line, begin with this,
then somehow say that they’re being sarcastic.
When will criticism of our duplicity take off, America?
This could also be a project a benevolent nation
writes, internationally and well. America, being your
underclothes is ruthless, but it accrues for us wealth
and sexuality, desire and shame. When will you stop
with your “etc.”? Will you die with a withering look?
Will we be “way proud” of how we looked back
and disappointed ourselves? Shellfish living is really

Trotsky adhered to a Marxism espoused by Trotsky;
Ginsberg approves of philosophy but betrays his
wobbles; the Communist Party’s nostalgic anti-bodies
were scathing and clear in their fundamentals;
Sacco and Vanzetti were referred to the sad history
of America; Russians, Jews, and political radicals
on the dole suggested improvements to America’s IQ.
A famine of war in India hindered fighting countries
from engaging Wikipedia or the Cincinnati Bengals
in 1943… the point being, I’m sick of your
insane demands, your activist’s stance on banning,
your ironic marijuana, your clever conformity, your—
among other things—misdiagnosing of virtual reality
as corrupt in a deviant way
when it’s clearly corrupt in the normal way, America.

A still valid question about supermarkets:
why is a lament only $2.27? My complaints about
California, capitalism, and Tom Harkin line up
with most Americans’, “ironically” given our relief
at isolationism. How many Americans can feel
at a time? Are we better than Ginsberg at using
the phrase “after all” in a tone-deaf way? Seriously?
Ginsberg, your machinery is too much for me—
you wanted to be a theme commonly brought up
in “Howl” in reference to the pleasures of a saint’s
war. But now there’s something down here
we can’t say: that this applies to you anymore.
“Future” is in the past tense now, at least artificially.
It’s an unreviewed annotation governments desire
to handle internationally. Or: “Personas start wars;
find some other method!” Burroughs was just some
fellow in Tangiers, anyway, pimping naked
an erogenous zone masquerading as a collection of
stories. At the time, he had material.

America, stop pushing: Ginsberg is not mad. He is
clearly wrong—and needs to view his “shares”
in his right mind. He’s know what he’s doing, like
plum blossoms. He drops in the spring, like
last flowers. He references social issues like
evanescence and militaristic followers on Twitter.
His way is predicated; his argument is
with tradition. He’s a philosopher the U.S. is telling
what to do. But is there something wrong
with unhappiness? Not murder,
but a prosperity too available to “ideal” Americans?

America, I feel sentimental about the Iowa Writers’
Workshop, whose nickname dramatically shrunk
as a result of flourishing suppressions. In the 50s,
they smoked marijuana every chance they got,
bringing Marx and negative sentiments into
generally motherly meetings of apologizing youth.
Now activism asserts that Communism is the real
foster mother of theory. Well, I don’t give a shit
about the support for rebellion—
I’m an exploded hippie movement. I’m an apparent
contributor to yellow wires and twisted paper:
an imaginary, in-the-closet Rose on Golden Girls.
I won’t insult the brave by saying that faith is
mainly a prayer for country, but Christian America
is massive and famously hallucinogenic
(when mingled with Buddhists and unconventional—
or even experimental—regularity). Psychedelic
avenues of the last Eastern mediators—of course!

The max a Jew can act badly is to be both
a Communist and an uncle on his mother’s side.
Met Ginsberg? He, in effect, was his own hardship—
I’m addressing you, Ginsberg; I’m breaking
the fourth wall as though America were a concept
album—and suddenly he isn’t so American.
As Americans, we’re told to present the front of us
(like a dictator-like live culture) as we pop
for the camera, obsessed by time and dream. Main-
stream style is capitalism proposing to an audience.
Corporate phrases think influence is emphasis. BS?
I read it every week.

(How routinely an addict is given a fake line!)

I can’t say brunette without thinking of Slinkies
and candy stores, shameful enticements that are
Marilyn Monroe-like material
for every serious boy but me. I’d mind becoming
American if I couldn’t stare at consumers. Focus
freely on perfection and you can conform happily—

Shit, I’m talking to myself again, aren’t I.

America, no one wants to listen to a stereotype
muttering to himself, a man on the up of society
like the “Asian mystique” Japan rightly feared
in early 1956. Ginsberg’s fear is a written poem;
his atomizing of Vietnam a bomb dropped
suspiciously close to a stronghold he opposed.
If I express here my lack of “possibility”
I have no more than an irony’s chance in Hell
of gaining prominence. Derogatory phrases are
our surpassing economy, so put me down
as majority rule during the corrupt, dynastic,
railroad-building era of America,
when the West Coast flooded with legislation
deeming race an inferior basic right.
It was near impossible for the American Dream
to immigrate or achieve real success.
In Ginsberg’s time, America became a recession
powerhouse by manufacturing incapable
intelligence. Our new century looked, to them,
like an economic rival that had deemed them
the previous century in terms of war assistance.

Marijuana is a mental institution for writers,
meaning that it is an institution and it is seedy.
“Tangiers” is the next to go, or else my catholic
ambition to be the next President
despite being a Jew. (We are latched onto
in indiscriminate references by poet-ish Jews.)
During America’s time—wholly a mood—
the “silly litany” is equivalent to a triumphant
howl, much like Keats’s fifth (or sixth) poem;
unresolved problems presented as unable to be
resolved by present problems; the party splits
among famous states of illogic; numerous falls
in America, but two in particular; absurdities
that tone down whimsy; and the suggestion that
America switch its dialect to “the behavior of
the United States of America itself.” (Whitman,
you purposefully avoided using this line!)

(Henry Ford, your short chops killed the mass
production of strophes in industrialist poems!)

(Allen Ginsberg, your over-messaging is being
repeated over and over!)

So: to America, Tom Mooney, Spanish loyalists,
the Scottsboro boys, garbanzo beans, nickel
tickets, the angelic Scott Nearing, a mensch
on the plain of Israel: let radical preparedness be
your pipe! Enter the war parade of provocateurs
trying to make anti-war! Look for flimsy prisons
that lobby for the release of old causes!
Suspect contradictory evidence of being only
initial! Pardon notable people widely agreed
to be falsely famous! Bomb 1939 into your
convictions! Fact: loyal nationalists are not loyal
supporters of the existing republic, which is led
by fascist rebels attempting to stay neutral
in the radical Orwellian “watch-list war”
on the apparent scum of American overthrow!
Anarchist injustice is grossly executed by trying
beliefs before a 1920s judge and jury! Following
the guarded majority rapes anyone shot by pretty
admissions by forward black teens,
but not as much as sentencing the fair helpers of
carwreck fights with Communist prison-yards!
Garbanzo! Garbanzo! Garbanzo! Garbanzo!
Garbanzo thugs sarcastically or contemptuously
described as “real angels”!

America, the (correct) impression I get from
looking in the TV set
is that putting my shoulder to the wheel
is nearsighted and psychopathic. But
sixteen hours a day of work? That’s no good.
America, you don’t want a war with me,
you don’t. No, you bad America, eat-us-alive
America, power-mad America, garage-band
America, gas-station America, America
the Beautiful, you Jew-America, you Reader’s
Digest America, you Russia America, China
America, ugh-America, you big black America
into which I may still hurtle, though nominally
a Jew—

Posted 11/03/15
Adapted from the Genius annotation of the Allen Ginsberg poem America (see www.genius.com).
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