America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents
January 17, 1956.
I can’t stand my own mind.
American when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in the right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I’m sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what
         I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the
         next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this
        argument .
Burroughs is in TangiersI don’t think he’ll come back
         It’s sinister.

Are you being sinister or is this some form of
          practical joke?
I’m trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday
          somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
         I’m not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the
         roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never
        get laid.
My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.
You should have seem me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle
         Max after he came over from Russia.

I’m addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
         Time magazine?
I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
I read it in the basement of the Berkley Public Library.
It’s always telling me about responsibility.
         Businessmen are serious.  Movie producers are
         serious.  Everybody’s serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

–  Allen Ginsberg

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s