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
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