Scramble to Understra (Poetic Prose, with Commentary on form and Allen Ginsberg)

Scramble to Understra


Ancient frozen dome cloaking Greenland is so vast these days—that it shell-shocks me (and many others), they crashed into what they thought was a cloud overseeing it, so says, the Ice Data Center, afar in the horizon. Flying over it, one can scarcely see Colorado—or thereabouts, and I am a veteran of both Greenland and Antarctica, this ice could erode fast enough to raise the sea beyond our cities boundaries, I fear that the rise is seas in a warming world, nervously will be, sometime soon. Scramble to Understra they say, wherever that is; perhaps under the sea.

The flanks around Greenland, in spring and summer will melt, however, a marathon they fear, much greater than the upper estimate by about two, different; for a lengthening spring of warm years to come, a century of observations, made last year by the Office of Intergovernmental of Blue Lakes and Rivulets; a meltdown, and climate change. Scramble to Understra they say, wherever that is; perhaps under the sea.


Ever higher on the ice cap, the melting surface, seas rose more than a foot, in the 20th century, absorbing up as much energy, says the panel’s assessment, which reflects sunlight, natural factors known to contribute to ice flows but called Moulin’s, well enough to estimate with confidence. Scramble to Understra they say, wherever that is; perhaps under the sea.



Note: Sometimes written poetry must take the form of free thought, when I say that, I mean, instantaneous, such as free association for the mind (meaning, you look, observe, and do), unregistered, and under no chemicals, just free, to see how the mind develops, what it sees and knows, the voice, the inner voice of the mind, the second voice, knows what you know, and what you don’t think you know, it pulls out the psychological elements, Allen Ginsberg tried to do, but couldn’t achieve: his mind was too involved with other things, pride and stardom, and materialism, all things he told the public, he told his conscious and tried to have it tell his subconscious, he didn’t care for, but his mind and spirit knew different, it got in the way—there are three parts to the soul and they work in unison, should you infect one, you limit all three—this was an issue in his poetry, so did his views on Communism, Vietnam, and religion, gay rights, he sought, but never found, his mind was clogged, like a persons veins with fat; in his book “Empty Mirrors,” he should have stuck with that premise that developing style, it would have given him more freedom to understand the style he was after. Long line poems, or short line poems, or poetic repetition, or free flight, it all amounted to experiments—why? Because they were experiments, and if so, how can it be, as he wanted it to be, free. “Howl,” is the worse poem ever written. You comb a poem the way you comb your hair, and you don’t think, or talk to your second self, saying: it should be this way or that way, you just do, and freely it falls as it should, it’s in they eyes. When he met, Bob Dylan, he was so infatuated, he couldn’t compose a proper line of poetry, thus, we see his real mind.