Ginsberg’s “America” Revisited

January 1956, Allen Ginsberg wrote: “America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.”

It is January 2026. I’m not sure if we’ve given it all as citizens or as a society. Some votes, some taxes, some rants, some protests, but surely not enough.

“Two dollars and twentyseven cents”? Don’t mention to Ginsberg the price of living in this economy.

Sometimes I, too, can’t stand my own mind.

“America when will we end the human war?” he asked. Not yet, Ginsberg, not yet. Nuclear weapons, missiles, drones, assault rifles, wrongful arrests, deportations without due process, homicides, the violence goes on and on.

“I don’t feel good don’t bother me.
I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.”
Ginsberg, it’s simply not possible to be in our right minds anymore.

“America when will you be angelic?” Not angelic yet.
“When will you take off your clothes?” Fully armored still.
“When will you look at yourself through the grave?” That moment feels near, as we seem set on a suicide mission: democracy, foreign affairs, ecology. America First, burning itself down from the inside.

Ginsberg implored, “America why are your libraries full of tears?” But those volumes that contain our tears—genocide, slavery, discrimination, injustice—are now being removed from the shelves across the nation. Instead, the libraries are urged to display books that sing of power, pride, and progress.

“America when will you send your eggs to India?” Don’t get him started on the price of eggs.

Like Ginsberg, so many of us are sick of the insane demands. The ultimatum is: be a white Christian male, or else.

Well, I’m all else.

Ginsberg suspected, “There must be some other way to settle this argument.” There must be. An uprising. A declaration of heart and sanity. Saints against authoritarians. Radical hope against despair. Resilience, no matter what.

“America the plum blossoms are falling.” Then let us sweep the streets.

Ginsberg admitted he hadn’t read the newspapers for months with somebody going on trial for murder every day. Today the killers wear badges: ICE agents and police officers who often evade consequence. White House blames left-wing ideology, not bullets. It’s an old story in America, guns above human lives. All hail the Second Amendment.

Ginsberg predicted that there’s going to be trouble. And troubles followed. Detroit, Los Angeles, Seattle, Ferguson, Standing Rock. In this moment the pulse is in Minneapolis. The unrest feels inevitable, unstoppable. Necessary.

America’s emotional life was run by Time Magazine, Ginsberg lamented. Now there is Fox News, Facebook, X, CNN, morning talk shows, late-night comedy, alternative truths, deepfakes, AI.

It occurs to me that we are all America.
We are talking to ourselves in circles.

Ginsberg observed Asia rising. Oceans are also rising. Greenhouse emissions are rising. Inflation is rising. Unemployment is rising. Death toll is rising. May civilians rise like no other.

“I’d better consider my national resources.” And what are they now, a flag and a Bible? What about civil rights? What about national parks? What about schools, hospitals, museums?

So much for Ginsberg’s “unpublishable private literature that jetplanes 1400 miles an hour and twentyfive-thousand mental institutions.”

He said his ambition was to be President despite being Catholic. Don’t bother Ginsberg. This is a spectacle, nothing more.

“America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?”

And though the mood remained silly, even sinister and deceitful, Ginsberg raged on, obscene and luminous, word after word. He howled at America, and so will we:

America, free the immigrants.
America, defend democracy.
America, protect civilians.
America, restore the planet.

“America you don’t really want to go to war.” Please don’t.

“America its them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad.”

But of course, we know Russia is not alone in its appetite to devour everything.
The President of the United States is power mad.
He wants to rule Venezuela.
He wants to claim Greenland.

He wants the Nobel Peace Prize.
He wants his name to crown the Kennedy Center.

He wants a gold-gilded ballroom.

Absolute loyalty. Solely his own morality. A government turned into reality TV. The whole world watching.

“America this is quite serious,” Ginsberg wrote; we ought to agree.

“I’d better get right down to the job,” he declared. And because he didn’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts factories, he offered, “America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.”

One poem at a time, 1400 miles an hour. That was his job. His gift to America.
It’s our turn. So I’m putting my immigrant shoulder to the wheel.

Because if not now, when?

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