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A poem a day to the Millennium December 14, 1999

In Back of the Real 

     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. 

- Allen Ginsberg
red sun image

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