Dustin Morrow
Final Lesson on America
i first met allen ginsberg
at a placed called thurga
on the rue de cathedral
in poitiers, france - december ’99
the kerala girls (risha and asha)
had convinced me to join them
so we wandered onto angry pedestrian streets
looking for a restaurant the copper-skinned hotel clerk
had recommended. “Malika mera dosta hai,” he had said.
we found the invincible thurga
in a pocket of a shop
and upon seeing our faces
the owner embraced us like prodigals
soon our spicy tongues and swelling lips
crossed borders of friendship, love, and lust
and the poet
putting down his grassy leaves
admired our dumbshow
dark-skinned and clean shaven
he rolled a cigarette with stained fingers
inhaling lustily while leaning
wisely on elbow and knee
listening as curried hands and conversation
surrounded our mouths
ordering cocktails for the kerala girls
he made himself a guest at our table
he said he liked the verse
I had scribbled on the paper napkin:
(closest yet, face to face
without a word, might we embrace)
translated into french
he said it sounded oriental
and the thurga’s owner
put the english on the wall
the french in his pocket
the malayalam in some closet of the mind
another drink and the poet began his lecture
by scolding my companions
laughing at their nostalgic ideas
of marriage and children and grandchildren
mocking them for holding on to sentimental india
racism, he explained, is
the fault of american individualism
an unsolicited segregation
to which all other isms can be sorted
“Having given up on being angelic
America has nothing left to teach the world.
like a lover, she is good to have in bed,” he said.
“And not so good when she isn’t.
“Who needs this America?
Who wants her in cold war peace?
She is old, ignorant
uncreative, uninspired,
and we only keep her for her money.
“Her cobwebbed soul
reeks of a million boys wasted,
but we keep her for her money.”
our glasses now empty a third time
and his lesson complete
we said goodbye to allen ginsberg
leaving thurga and lectures on america
for a more ancient architecture
we turned the corner
our soles pressed against the flagstones
of angry pedestrian streets
not knowing our future was behind us
what poetry is now pinned to walls
what dreams remain boxed in closets
while silent cathedrals stand ghostly sentinel
and poor ginsberg
with his crude prophecies
and slanted translations
has he not haunted me since