Es sumamente raro cómo encajan ciertas cosas sin darnos cuenta, sin pretenderlo. Sigo descreído de las casualidades.
El sábado vi la película A sangre fría y recordé a Sacco y Vanzetti. Hoy desperté con los primeros versos de Aullido, de Allen Ginsberg, tocando la ventana para entrar con el aire frío. A media mañana me encontré con Juan Pablo y ante nuestra plática filosófica, existencialista, apesadumbrada, él propuso que la solución es la mariguana; entonces recordé los beneficios y precauciones que propuso Burroughs acerca del consumo. Hace unos minutos pasé un buen rato leyendo otro blog donde vi un video de Bob Dylan que había visto por primera y única vez hace muchos años, y en el cual sale Ginsberg. Recordé la versión de Aullido musicalizada por Kronos Quartet, pero no quiero escucharla. No quiero releer el poema, por lo cual continuo leyendo los primeros versos de otros poemas y me encuentro con uno conocido. Varias cosas entre el sábado y hoy se acomodan. Más importante aún: desconozco la razón, pero este poema tiene los versos que me resultan necesarios este día.


America, por Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven 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 and 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 our 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. 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.

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 and hour and twentyfive-
thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged
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 Communist 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 sincere 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 Reader's Digest. Her
wants our auto plants in Siberia. Him big
bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes 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.