Intento forzar el silencio a su máximo nivel para poder escuchar y entender cada palabra, con su voz dulce y bajita y triste. Tanto que me escucho el corazón latir. O será la tristeza de su voz bajita que lo hace latir más fuerte?
Noto como Allen le escribió a sus autores-amores y pienso en cada párrafo que le dediqué yo a él.
Frente al mar, en la estación y en el tren, antes de dormir, sentada en el living de mi casa sin poder dejar de leer, llorando cada página como si hablara de su muerte, marcando las hojas de sus libros, dejando rastros para poder volver.
Un amigo me escribió hace unos días pidiéndome prestado "Howl y otros poemas". Se va al norte durante el verano y no consiguió comprárselo. Le contesté que
se lo prestaba con una condición: "que lo marcara".
A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman,
for I walked down the streets 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 America 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?
