What thoughts I had of you today, John Barrowman, while I skipped down the main road under the awnings with a bunch of carnations looking at the sale signs.
With my humble finances, and window shopping my dreams, I went into the Asian food market, dreaming of your enameled whites!
What coconuts and what persimmons! Whole families shopping at once! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the noodles, babies in the rice!--and you, John Barrowman, what were you doing down by the fish counter?
I saw you, John Barrowman, careless, goofy old grubber, joking among the natives in the refrigerator and winking at the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions in Welch: Who killed the angels? What price for marriage? Are you my executioner?
I wandered in and out of the colorful columns of cans and followed you, and followed in my imagination by the oriental time agents.
We galloped down the thin corridors together in our solitary fancy shaking cheese puffs, acquiring a taste for dried crab, and never passing the police box.
Where are we going, John Barrowman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your smile point today?
(I touch your pecs and dream of our odyssey in the supernova galaxy and feel giddy.)
Will we fly all night through solitary universe? The bees add buzzing to buzzing, lights out in the suns, around lonely planets.
Will we spin dreaming of the lost dogmas of love past blue spaceships in driveways, home to our silent planet?
Ah, dear actor, slick hair, horny old future-man, what did America do to you when roses quit pollinating with fairies and you stepped out to a screaming crowd and stood watching the ship disappear on the black skies of earth?
A Supermarket in California by Alan Ginsberg from Howl and other poems Berkeley 1955
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost American of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
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