H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t
D a u g h t e r s
of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 :
A r c h i v e s E d i
t i o n
THOMAS R. PETERS, Jr.
“Ay Que Sarandos Mas Profundos!”
––Pablo
Neruda
this interesting
little planet
moving slowly
around every moment
is like the
silver pie display at the hotel restaurant,
with the urgency
of motorcyclists
it move
ferociously away from death,
twirling its
mustache,
with forests
rapidly
swaying around.
Today is the
last day
of man, this
murderous arena,
with no corners
to hide in,
no time for
nothing,
creating insular
little colonies,
where all music
disappears
locked behind
cement walls
“So,
what are you going to do about it,”
prisoners of sin
like cruel
parades through Detroit
for the
numberless dead
passing on the
old rumor
like the fish
descending
on the city in
my dream,
(where
every hello is a sin
amongst the
bucolic protestants
on the humid
expressway.)
[Originally
published in NHS 1994, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs94/index.html#1.]