Sake Mobile Ices

An Homage to Ginsberg

In the name of identity I committed the crime of the century [1]; In the name of identity you, I, he, she, we created monsters; monsters born out of the 2^nd world war: the post-everything: post-industrial, post-modernism, post-structuralism, post-coital, post-mortem, post-office, post-it, spontaneous prose [2] and then the beat itself broke free from freedom and liberty.      

Words that I type and re-type are those Ginsberg once or twice typed, in this lifetime or another [3], those that always come back, those that don’t work, those that say more than they intend to, those we read in retrospect, those we read before they appear before our eyes, those that don’t exist, those we hallucinate when on some drugs or other ecstasy that will only be known by the hipsters that died long ago from them.

And sandwiches, those the hipsters ate back in the forties and fifties, those that included meat, inches long of meat and dirty assholes [4] and bones and teeth and sweat and eyes closed and brides and bridegrooms [5] and naked lunches [6] with some closeted acquaintance that should come out of closet some five years later  [7]. And there had been some sandwiches that have been eaten in madhouses by the best minds [8] of Ginsberg’s generation – and ours! – playing ping-pong while undergoing electroconvulsive therapy and hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy and who left that place alone and haggard, blind to their poetic vision [9]; left to stare either at the blank horizon or the immediate wall of their consciousness. No more middle-distance visions [10] of poetry for them, no more identity except the one from medicated norm-apathy.

Eli Eli Lama Sabachtani [11] the poet said when raging, crying, messianic and all powerful, “dominating the whole room [12]” full of queers and princesses and people consumed by Moloch [13] the almighty! Moloch! Moloch the mind who leaves people in the nightmarish reality. Moloch, who repetition is the motif of the consummation of the human mind by the human mind. Moloch, who lies restless in poems, having no origins but the one of language itself [14].

But the poet also found holiness. Holiness from the mind to the body and everything else that probably went straight to Heaven in Eternity or Eternity in Heaven; somewhere you can find all those artists that should have rot in Hell by religion standards but who, because of their incline to want freedom in nothing and everything and dogma too, should, in Ginsberg’s mind, go to Heaven.

So come into the Green Automobile [15] and roll over the pavement and highways [16] from Denver to New York [17], but on your way don’t forget to smell the stink of Paterson [18]’s caricature of grotesque human beings, the greed, the burning desires and cruel optimisms [19] that drove Ginsberg insane for the Peyote God’s solidities [20] or a pound of Marijuana or enough heroin to die on the cross in L.A. and make his last breath in Denver [21].

Freedom will never die as long as people will disagree… and everything is going to the beat. [22]

• 29 March 2012