haVanalleN

Allen Ginsberg, reading Havana 1953 HERE

HAVANA 1953

I

The night cafe -- 4AM
Cuba Libre 20c:
white tiled squares,
triangular neon lights,
long wooden bar on one side,
a great delicatessen booth
on the other facing the street.
In the center
among the great city midnight drinkers,
by Aedama Palace
on Gomez corner,
white men and women
with standing drums,
mariachis, voices, guitars --
drumming on tables,
knives on bottles,
banging on the floor
and on each other,
with wooden clacks,
whistling, howling,
fat women in strapless silk.

... CONT. HERE



Cop talking to the fat nosed girl
in a flashy black dress.
In walks a weird Cezanne
vision of the nowhere hip Cuban:
tall, thin, check grey suit,
grey felt shoes,
blaring gambler's hat,
Cab Calloway pimp's mustachio
-- it comes down to a point in the center --
rushing up generations late talking Cuban,
pointing a gold ringed finger
up toward the yellowed ceiling,
other cigarette hand pointing
stiff-armed down at his side,
effeminate: -- he sees the cop --
they rush together -- they're embracing
like long lost brothers --
fatnose forgotten.

Delicate chords
from the negro guitarino
-- singers at El Rancho Grande,
drunken burlesque
screams of agony,
VIVA JALISCO!
I eat a catfish sandwich
with onions and red sauce
20c.

II

A truly romantic spot,
more guitars, Columbus Square
across from Columbus Cathedral
-- I'm in the Paris Restaurant
adjacent, best in town,
Cuba Libres 30c --
weatherbeaten tropical antiquity,
as if rock decayed,
unlike the pure
Chinese drummers of black stone
whose polished harmony can still be heard
(Procession of Musicians) at the Freer,
this with its blunt cornucopias and horns
of conquest made of stone --
a great dumb rotting church.

Night, lights from windows,
high stone balconies
on the antique square,
green rooms
paled by florescent houselighting,
a modern convenience.

I feel rotten.
I would sit down with my servants and be dumb.
I spent too much money.

White electricity
in the gaslamp fixtures of the alley.
Bullet holes and nails in the stone wall.
The worried headwaiter
standing amid the potted palms in cans
in the fifteen foot wooden door looking at me.
Mariachi harmonica artists inside
getting around to Banjo on My Knee yet.
They dress in wornout sharpie clothes.

Ancient streetlights down the narrow Calle I face,
the arch, the square,
palms, drunkenness, solitude;
voices across the street,
baby wail, girl's squeak,
waiters nudging each other,
grumble and cackle of young boys' laughter
in streetcorner waits,
perro barking off-stage,
baby strangling again,
banjo and harmonica,
auto rattle and a cool breeze --

Sudden paranoid notion the waiters are watching me:
Well they might,
four gathered in the doorway
and I alone at a table
on the patio in the dark
observing the square, drunk.
25c for them
and I asked for "Jalisco" --
at the end of the song
oxcart rolls by
obtruding its wheels
o'er the music o' the night.