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Employing a tactic I'm pretty sure I've picked up from the current presidential administration, I've decided to take a new approach to truth. Namely, I'm going to make it up. And make it up in such a way that justifies every decision I decide(d), and in such a way that makes me feel better about my life, and the enveloping society thereof.

So here goes: Everyone is reading.

And because everyone is reading, there is a high demand for poetry.
And because there is a high demand for poetry, once a week, possibly on Mondays, but certainly not limited to Mondays, I'm going to try really hard to post a Poem Worth Reading on this blog.

I know I know I know, this is supposed to be a blog about books, and probably shouldn't contain any actual literature, unless it's hyper-linked. Nevertheless, poems are great. They're (often) short, and powerful, and sometimes they even rhyme, which makes you feel happy for reasons you probably can't define very well. And people should read more of them. More, even, than they already are. Which is lots. Because everybody is reading. Obviously.

This week's Poem Worth Reading is by Allen Ginsberg, from his collection Kaddish and Other Poems, which came out sometime ago (1961).

Read it. Everyone else is. There's self-deprecation involved. And cats. God, it's honest-seeming. Parts are omitted. If you want them in, let me know and I'll add them. A little dark, but it's cold outside.

"Mescaline"

Rotting Ginsberg, I stared in the mirror naked today
I noticed the old skull, I'm getting balder
my pate gleams in the kitchen light under thin hair
like the skull of some monk in old catacombs lighted by a guard with flashlight
followed by a mob of tourists
so there is death
my kitten mews, and looks into the closet
Boito sings on the phonograph tonight his ancient song of
angels
Beato Angelico's universe
The cat's gone mad and scraowls around the floor
...
Yes, I should be good, I should get married
find out what it's all about
but I can't stand these women all over me
smell of Naomi
erk, I'm stuck with this familiar rotting ginsberg
can't stand boys even anymore
can't stand
can't stand
and who wants to get fucked up the ass, really/
Immense seas passing over
the flow of time
and who wants to be famous and sign autographs like a movie star

I want to know
I want I want ridiculous to know to know WHAT rotting ginsberg
I want to know what happens after I rot
because I'm already rotting
my hair's falling out I've got a belly I'm sick of sex
my ass drags in the universe I know too much
and not enough
I want to know what happens after I die
well I'll find out soon enough
do I really need to know now?
is that any use at all use use use
death death death death death
god god god god god god god the Lone Ranger
the rhythm of the typewriter

What can I do to Heavy by pounding on Typewriter
I'm stuck change the record Gregory ah excellent he's doing just that
and I am too conscious of a million ears
at present creepy ears, making commerce
too many pictures in the newspapers
faded yellowed press clippings
I'm going away from the poem to be a drak contemplative

trash of the mind
trash of the world
man is half trash
all trash in the grave

What can Williams be thinking in Paterson, death so much on him
so soon so soon
Williams, what is death?
Do you fact the great question now each moment
or do you forget at breakfast looking at your old ugly love in the face
are you prepared to be reborn
to give release to this world to enter a heaven
or give release, give release
and all be done - and see a lifetime -all eternity - gone over
into naught, a trick question proposed by the moon to the answerless earth
No Glory for man! No Glory for Man! No glory for me! No me!

No point writing when the spirit doth not lead

NY, 1959