IN BACK OF THE REAL

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railroad yard in San Jose
           I wandered desolate
in front of a tank factory
           and sat on a bench
near the switchman's shack.

A flower lay on the hay on
           the asphalt highway
the dread hay flower
           I thought It had a
brittle black stem and
           corolla of yellowish dirty
spikes like Jesus' inchlong
           crown, and a soiled
dry center cotton tuft
           like a used shaving brush
that's been lying under
           the garage for a year.

Yellow, yellow flower, and
           flower of industry,
tough spiky ugly flower,
           flower nonetheless,
with the form of the great yellow
           Rose in your brain!
This is the flower of the World.

San Jose, 1954

© Allen Ginsberg
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© E-publisher LiterNet, 04.07.2010
The Sun Is but a Morning Star. Anthology of American Literature. Edited by Albena Bakratcheva. Varna: LiterNet, 2008-2010