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