I had thought about giving away some literary magazines that I hadn’t looked into for a long time. I leafed through them one last time. In an old issue of KONZEPTE with the title „Mythologie 2000“ (No. 18, Vol. 12) I discovered a text that excited me. The text is dedicated to Allen Ginsberg and comes from Bob Holman, of whom I had heard or read nothing so far. In the short biographical note you could read that Holman had accompanied Allen Ginsberg on more than 50 readings. The text is written in ten small paragraphs, each of which is in justification, and ranges between experimental prose and poetry. What impresses me most are the untranslatable puns and the way something is created behind the words.
WHAT NOW – to Allen Ginsberg
By Bob Holman
We eat words. Poetry is spoken, it is the euro of language. Once, a tiny little once. But often, more than likely.
Hello? Hello? There is no talking, this is a dumb piece of paper with blotto stains and grease lips all over it. Put up or put out. Can the can´t.
What happens is this: the truth is in the telling, the tasting. Add the salt. Corrupt the pipeline. Art and Industry swagger down the aisle.
I have been asked to speak to you but my tongue has another opinion. Sex generously disappears. The right is wrong.
Whenever her fingers slid into the fax machine, Africa would wince with pain. A simple blind. Terror and treachery make a fine breakfast.
As I was saying, prose. Prostitute Politicos Present: prose. Towards the end of the line, a chunk of prose. It was all prose, except for the rose.
Freedom is pregnant with democracy´s bastard. All lies, but the poor cannot get to sleep. Steady goes the junk food.
Brace yourself – crucifixion sportive. Merciless climate, how the homeless tend to congregate, it´s for more than warmth.
The slow devolution to reptiles. Music is bought and silence is the price. Meanwhile, there is no meanwhile. This is not the end. This is.