Allen Ginsberg sang the slow poetry of the technological age before its time.
He took the time to wallow in the horrors of the banal that flit by us as fast
as we can click thru. With Whitman as his muse, he turned our eyes from nature
to our fractured nature, and held our gaze.
I don’t even especially like Ginsberg’s poetry. Give me Hopkins any day. But
the torrent of measured fitfulness poured out as a fruitless libation, sterile
poetry stank with death, demise, burrowing in little rat holes for faint hope;
well there’s more there there than the internet, right? A goodly bit of the
tubes piping bare flesh into bare hands and barren hearts, the rest amalgams
of news, quizzes, pokes, wanton squealing over shiny things, and poor people
mortgaging themselves on the next turn-key SEO keyword whitepaper build an
audience dropship four hour solution (run on index cards, of all things). Well
of course Ginsberg’s deadbeat doped out strung hipster buds and their very
real suffering has more life than that. Life takes time. Poetry takes time.
The tubes steal attention, the grist of living. Time bandits. Attention
pirates. Design masquerading as art. The shocking parading as feeling. This
pause pretending to be an ending.