allen ginsberg

after allen ginsberg

Mother, the red dust everywhere

on sliced cliffs and terraced plateaus

white pain on bony brown trees

I hold my hand out, again

for more

You called this home, I call this wilderness third-world,

as if there were many worlds and we didn't all live

on one earth. You guessed that she was not from here

because her cheeks were rosy. Small walls rise

up slowly and divide until there are so many

pieces that you can't hold any of them

in your hand or in your heart.

Mother, I am not, I am not, I am not

from here. Mao is dead and the playing cards

still have his pictures and I cannot look

at his golden statue of his horrible image

It is sunny upon the brown fields and when

i was young -- one time I came to you

crying with a thumb sliced open by

daddy's razor and you scolded me

until I feel in desperation and utter

loneliness.

Mao is long gone. I was born free maybe.

Maybe none of us are free. But I know for sure

that I am not starving.

Mother, I see your double chin as you

sit in the front of the bus with

dark glasses and I contemplate

the obesity of prosperity.