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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342359" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sunflower Sutra</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden crown-- </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs & sphincters of dynamos--all these </div><div style="margin:10px 0">entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your glory in your form! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the heavens of your railroad and your flower soul? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Allen+Ginsberg">Allen Ginsberg</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=342359" data-title="Sunflower Sutra de Allen Ginsberg" data-description="I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry. 

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we tho..."></div>
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