Regarding Holly Prado's review of the collected Allen Ginsberg (Book Review, Jan. 20), all I can say is:
Vers Promiscuus From womb to tomb I wonder as I go,
what cadence shall I call to lead my way?
But why take pains to scribe a rhythmic beat
on peeling walls of time graffitoed with
prosaic strophes that don't celebrate
that Apollonian craft called poetry,
but hoarsely stutter without melody?...
Just tongue-tied Angst and self-indulgent lines
that "howl" a simplified philosophy
wherein the world's reduced to size of thoughts
that lie in puberty's loose pimpled grasp,
are flogged in rhythmless vacuity...!
The point of such prosetry? Onan says,
"Just shuffle the deck; solitaire's the game!" DONALD JOHNS Venice