Allen Ginsberg — Wichita Vortex Sutra 3

I’m an old man now, and a lonesome man in Kansas     but not afraid         to speak my lonesomeness in a car,         because not only my lonesomeness             it’s Ours, all over America,                 O tender fellows—             & spoken lonesomeness is Prophecy             in the moon 100 years ago or in                 the middle of Kansas now. It’s not the vast plains mute our mouths             that fill at midnite with ecstatic language         when our trembling bodies hold each other             breast to breast on a mattress—     Not the empty sky that hides                 the feeling from our faces     nor our skirts and trousers that conceal         the bodylove emanating in a glow of beloved skin,             white smooth abdomen down to the hair                 between our legs,     It’s not a God that bore us that forbid         our Being, like a sunny rose                 all red with naked joy         between our eyes & bellies, yes All we do is for this frightened thing         we call Love, want and lack—     fear that we aren’t the one whose body could be         beloved of all the brides of Kansas City,         kissed all over by every boy of Wichita—     O but how many in their solitude weep aloud like me—         On the bridge over Republican River             almost in tears to know                 how to speak the right language—         on the frosty broad road             uphill between highway embankments         I search for the language                 that is also yours—         almost all our language has been taxed by war. Radio antennae high tension     wires ranging from Junction City across the plains—     highway cloverleaf sunk in a vast meadow         lanes curving past Abilene             to Denver filled with old                 heroes of love—         to Wichita where McClure’s mind             burst into animal beauty             drunk, getting laid in a car                 in a neon misted street                     15 years ago—     to Independence where the old man’s still alive     who loosed the bomb that’s slaved all human consciousness         and made the body universe a place of fear— Now, speeding along the empty plain,         no giant demon machine             visible on the horizon     but tiny human trees and wooden houses at the sky’s edge         I claim my birthright!             reborn forever as long as Man                 in Kansas or other universe—Joy         reborn after the vast sadness of the War Gods! A lone man talking to myself, no house in the brown vastness to hear         imagining that throng of Selves             that make this nation one body of Prophecy                 languaged by Declaration as Pursuit of                     Happiness! I call all Powers of imagination     to my side in this auto to make Prophecy,                     all Lords         of human kingdoms to come Shambu Bharti Baba naked covered with ash         Khaki Baba fat-bellied mad with the dogs Dehorahava Baba who moans Oh how wounded, How wounded     Sitaram Onkar Das Thakur who commands                     give up your desire Satyananda who raises two thumbs in tranquility     Kali Pada Guha Roy whose yoga drops before the void             Shivananda who touches the breast and says OM Srimata Krishnaji of Brindaban who says take for your guru     William Blake the invisible father of English visions     Sri Ramakrishna master of ecstasy eyes         half closed who only cries for his mother Chitanya arms upraised singing & dancing his own praise     merciful Chango judging our bodies         Durga-Ma covered with blood             destroyer of battlefield illusions         million faced Tathagata gone past suffering     Preserver Harekrishna returning in the age of pain Sacred Heart my Christ acceptable         Allah the compassionate one                 Jaweh Righteous One             all Knowledge-Princes of Earth-man, all     ancient Seraphim of heavenly Desire, Devas, yogis             & holymen I chant to—                 Come to my lone presence                     into this Vortex named Kansas, I lift my voice aloud,     make Mantra of American language now,             I here declare the end of the War!                 Ancient days’ Illusion!—         and pronounce words beginning my own millennium. Let the States tremble,     let the nation weep,         let Congress legislate its own delight,             let the President execute his own desire— this Act done by my own voice,                 nameless Mystery— published to my own senses,         blissfully received by my own form     approved with pleasure by my sensations         manifestation of my very thought         accomplished in my own imagination             all realms within my consciousness fulfilled     60 miles from Wichita                 near El Dorado,                     The Golden One, in chill earthly mist     houseless brown farmland plains rolling heavenward                         in every direction one midwinter afternoon Sunday called the day of the Lord—     Pure Spring Water gathered in one tower             where Florence is                     set on a hill,             stop for tea & gas     Cars passing their messages along country crossroads         to populaces cement-networked on flatness,                     giant white mist on earth         and a Wichita Eagle-Beacon headlines         “Kennedy Urges Cong Get Chair in Negotiations” The War is gone,     Language emerging on the motel news stand,                     the right magic         Formula, the language known     in the back of the mind before, now in black print                     daily consciousness Eagle News Services Saigon—     Headline Surrounded Vietcong Charge Into Fire Fight         the suffering not yet ended                     for others         The last spasms of the dragon of pain                 shoot thru the muscles             a crackling around the eyeballs             of a sensitive yellow boy by a muddy wall Continued from page one area     after the Marines killed 256 Vietcong captured 31     ten day operation Harvest Moon last December                 Language language     U.S. Military Spokesmen             Language language                     Cong death toll         has soared to 100 in First Air Cavalry         Division’s Sector of                 Language language             Operation White Wing near Bong Son Some of the     Language language             Communist                 Language language soldiers charged so desperately     they were struck with six or seven bullets before they fell     Language Language M-60 Machine Guns             Language language in La Drang Valley     the terrain is rougher infested with leeches and scorpions             The war was over several hours ago! Oh at last again the radio opens     blue Invitations!         Angelic Dylan singing across the nation             “When all your children start to resent you             Won’t you come see me, Queen Jane?”     His youthful voice making glad                 the brown endless meadows     His tenderness penetrating aether,         soft prayer on the airwaves,             Language language, and sweet music too             even unto thee,                 hairy flatness!             even unto thee                 despairing Burns! Future speeding on swift wheels         straight to the heart of Wichita! Now radio voices cry population hunger world                 if unhappy people         waiting for Man to be born                 O man in America!     you certainly smell good                 the radio says     passing mysterious families of winking towers     grouped round a Quonset-hut on a hillock—         feed storage or military fear factory here? Sensitive City, Ooh! Hamburger & Skelley’s Gas             lights feed man and machine,     Kansas Electric Substation aluminum robot         signals thru thin antennae towers         above the empty football field                     at Sunday dusk to a solitary derrick that pumps oil from the unconscious                 working night & day     & factory gas-flares edge a huge golf course         where tired businessmen can come and play— Cloverleaf, Merging Traffic East Wichita turnoff             McConnell Airforce Base                     nourishing the City—     Lights rising in the suburbs     Supermarket Texaco brilliance starred             over streetlamp vertebrae on Kellogg,         green jeweled traffic lights             confronting the windshield, Centertown ganglion entered!         Crowds of autos moving with their lightshine,         signbulbs winking in the driver’s eyeball—     The human nest collected, neon lit,                 and sunburst signed         for business as usual, except on the Lord’s Day—     Redeemer Lutheran’s three crosses lit on the lawn                 reminder of our sins     and Titsworth offers insurance on Hydraulic     by De Voors Guard’s Mortuary for outmoded bodies                 of the human vehicle         which no Titsworth of insurance will customize for resale— So home, traveler, past the newspaper language factory     under Union Station railroad bridge on Douglas     to the center of the Vortex, calmly returned         to Hotel Eaton Carry Nation began the war on Vietnam here             with an angry smashing ax                 attacking Wine—     Here fifty years ago, by her violence began a vortex of hatred that defoliated the Mekong Delta—     Proud Wichita! vain Wichita         cast the first stone!—                 That murdered my mother         who died of the communist anticommunist psychosis             in the madhouse one decade long ago     complaining about wires of masscommunication in her head             and phantom political voices in the air                 besmirching her girlish character.     Many another has suffered death and madness             in the Vortex from Hydraulic                 to the end of 17th –enough! The war is over now—     Except for the souls             held prisoner in Niggertown still pining for love of your tender white bodies O children of Wichita!