"DANCE OF LIFE!"

“And You Garcia Lorca, What Were
You Doing Down By the Watermelons?” (Allen Ginsberg)

The young lithe Spaniard thumps
these frutas verde, muy grande,
muy gordita, these pregnant sandias,
like ancient Arabic drums
found in dense dry chapparal
on the Andalusian roadside,
blessed under a virgin’s black moon.

Music imbued with gypsy songs
of our invisible dead, sweeten
these days blazing with joy.
The hot clear air is pungent,
smelling full flavored
thick with saffron and thyme.

Lorca licks his wet lips,
and for one grateful instant
by God’s good grace
every fascist in Spain
takes up a pistol and shoots
himself straight through the head.

The poet and his people dance in the dirt,
rejoice aloud in strong praise
of the life~giving Sun.
They drink wine from the hills
as white blossoms of words,
honey from beehives deep
in the heart beguile
and liquefy the night.

Shiny black seeds spit forth
from the belly of fruit become
the wise, foolish twins holding hands:
MADNESS she grins, BEAUTY he shimmers,
TOGETHER CREATION CONTINUES.