To Be Me

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Day One

Crossing the barrier 

Much easier than they tell you 

At first it was lonely

But then I saw you

A photograph before me

From ten years ago

Yet you breathe

And I can hear you breathe

And I can feel you breathe

And the kiss

The first kiss

The one I never got

The one you never gave

I took it for my own

 

Day Two

Passing through the blood red door

A step too painful to recall

Is that you?

Everyday you wasted away by my side

How could I take for granted

How in every sense

You were my soul mate

Go on without me doll face

Yes, I still remember how much

You love when I call you that

If I could, I would whisper it to you now

And go on, live the life we always wanted

 

Day Three

School house doors

I should have loved you better

Should have loved you

Should have married you sooner

Should have met you sooner

It should have been you

That night on Mount Hope

That night on the porch

That night under street lights

It was you

Who deserved my soul

You never got what you deserved

And that was better

I should have loved you better

 

Day Four

Pushing through a viscous portal

I see the days you failed me

Years without a dad

Unimportant

Before me now 

You stand redeemed

Saving us from life itself

I think that cancelled out

The years we struggled

The years we cried

The years I spent alone

The year you saved mom

You saved me

And you were always ours

 

Day Five

This time our bedroom door

How many days did we waste away

Nights you read stories

Nights you snuck cigarettes

On the top bunk

And I eaves dropped on your phone calls

And I read your diary

And I bled in every word

And I fail to regret it

Because I knew you better

Than you ever knew I could

From then on, you never noticed

I appealed to your heart

I empathized with what you wrote

I loved you, as a sister should

Because I knew you better

Than you could ever know

 

Day Six

Home, our door

Our life

Our aches

Our pains 

Our love

Our stories

Our breaths

Remember the moment?

I do.

I saw you as you were

As you are

Not as my mother

As me

Our life
Sharing more than words

Sharing blood

Sharing cuts and scrapes and bruises

Sharing heart break

Every single one

I will miss you most

You are me

I, you

Us

 

Day Seven

Your house, your door

How strange

To stand here again

The cedar wood door, six feet

seven and a quarter inches tall

Five feet three inches wide

The maroon paint

Chips off in fifty seven places

If I felt any smaller

I would be infinitesimal 

But then I saw you

A photograph before me

From ten years ago

Yet you breathe

And I can hear you breathe

And I can feel you breathe

And the kiss

The first kiss

The one I never got

The one you never gave

I took it for my own

To you, in life

I never said goodbye

Though you said it many times

I took it for my own

And you returned it

And I thank myself for that

Because only here, in my own heaven

Will you ever be mine

 

 

 

 

America by Allen Ginsberg

 

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.

America 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 my 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 Tangiers I 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 seen 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

candystore.

I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.

It’s always telling me about responsibility. Business-

men 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.

Asia is rising against me.

I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.

I’d better consider my national resources.

My national resources consist of two joints of

marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable

private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour

and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.

I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of

underprivileged who live in my flowerpots

under the light of five hundred suns.

I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers

is the next to go.

My ambition is to be President despite the fact that

I’m a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly

mood?

I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as

individual as his automobiles more so they’re

all different sexes.
 

America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500

down on your old strophe

America free Tom Mooney

America save the Spanish Loyalists

America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die

America I am the Scottsboro boys.

America when I was seven momma took me to Com-

munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a

handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the

speeches were free everybody was angelic and

sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-

cere you have no idea what a good thing the

party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand

old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me

cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody

must have been a spy.

America you don’t really want to go to war.

America it’s them bad Russians.

Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.

And them Russians.

The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power

mad. She wants to take our cars from out our

garages.

Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers’

Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.

Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-

tions.

That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.

Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us

all work sixteen hours a day. Help.

America this is quite serious.

America this is the impression I get from looking in

the television set.

America is this correct?

I’d better get right down to the job.

It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes

in precision parts factories, I’m nearsighted and

psychopathic anyway.

America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.