A Supermarket in California

A Supermarket in California

Allen Ginsberg

   What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down

the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at

the full moon.

   In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went to 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?

Berkeley, 1955                                                                                                 1956

The last line refers to forgetfulness. In Greek mythology, Lethe was one of the rivers of Hades. Charon was the boatman who ferried the dead to the underworld. 

 

 

Pizza Again?

Surely.

Here it is. I am making dough. I think they refer to it as a "ass-load" of dough on the streets. The dough is cornmeal and semolina riddled. I found that this makes for a delightfully crispy crust. It is not a wheaty sort of dough, but you can't be good and fiberful all the time. I am also making sauces. A red, some form of a white, and probably a garlicky nutritional yeast and oil number as well. Whoever is coming over will be bringing toppings for a pizza of their choice. We are thinking that maybe between eight and fifteen people will find their way here. a lot of pizza for a lot of people.

I will post the (possible) pictures and results later on.

Until then, in the tradition of Garrison Keillor and the Writer's Almanac, here's a poem by Jorge Luis Borges:

Camden, 1892

The smell of coffee and the newspapers.

Sunday and its lassitudes. The morning,

and on the adjoining page, that vanity---

the publication of allegorical verses

by a fortunate fellow poet. The old man

lies on a white bed in his sober room, 

a poor man's habitation. Languidly

he gazes at his face in the worn mirror.

He thinks, beyond astonishment now: that man

is me, and absentmindedly his hand

touches the unkempt beard and the worn-out mouth.

The end is close. He mutters to himself:

I am almost dead, but still my poems retain

life and its wonders. I was once Walt Whitman.

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.


--------------------------------------------

I didn't have a camera proper, so I just used the little built-in camera on the laptop. We made eleven pizzas, one of which was sent across the street to the wonderful proprietor of our favorite coffee shop, Wings. I made an alfredo sauce, a red sauce and a peanut sauce. All three were stars in their own right. Here is a couple:

And here are the pizza-eaters:

It was all very enjoyable. The aftermath though, not so fun.