UAS Penulisan Populer

TITI HAYATI
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A Supermarket in California
By Allen Ginsberg
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the
trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket,
dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of
husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!-and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you
doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the
refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas?
Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed my
imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes,
possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your
beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in
the houses, we’ll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways,
home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, greybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when
Caron quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat
disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Berkeley, 1955
 Last time I checked, I was still in the century where I belong to, what on earth I did that
could wake Walt Whitman up from his grave in New Jersey. But, after all it feels so good to
keep a companion, at least an imaginary companion. It sounds the same for me. Wait, or are you
going to tell me something that you have discovered there in after life, Whitman? Why did you
choose me to conjure up to?
Now we both are strolling around the city under the pale moonlight and heading to a
supermarket, a quite American supermarket in a country side, that oddly crowded in the middle
of the night. The first thing come into my mind is that I need a bit rest, my imagination got wild
when I am exhausted. The neon fruit lamp blinding our sights, yet fascinating to look at, quite
convincing to shop just for the images, not to contents the guts. I said to my fellow Whitman
“Oh, are you in the middle of research for your next enumerations of America, Whitman?”
The door bel dings right after my right foot comes in to the shiny supermarket. It is
getting interesting for me. What peaches and what penumbras! Those shines now has its
shadows, right behind the hype feeling of purchasing things will always come regret of not
buying the needs and the right goods. This capitalist and commercial wonderland, an
overwhelming environment, where we always worried of how to can fulfil a “good life” of
American. The number of crowds of families buying groceries has frozen me, I saw the husbands
fill the aisles, and wives on the avocadoes, while the babies on the tomatoes checking for the
mini-ladies whether they are really there or not.
I see a friend from Spain, Garcia Lorca down the watermelon aisle, perhaps doing his
research for other Poet in New York, maybe you have down for Poet in California? Now I look at
Whitman again, looking like a loner, a homeless eyeing the meat refrigerator, passionately
interrogating the shop boy about anything he has found, the chopped pork, the price of a banana,
he just flirts and let his heart out, or he is doing his research now. My thoughts on the last thing
get stronger, he was not coming for me. Still, it is better for me then being alone all day.
I am enjoying my grocery session while eyeing on the aisle full of various, numerous
cans stacked from the floor to the ceiling. I feel someone is spying on me and Whitman who
walk in front of me, it may be Sherlock Holmes or he may be the local detective looking for any
evidences that accidentally attached on the homeless looking man like me. This detective I see
from the tail of my eyes, or at least in my head, he got a good sense. I would recommend this guy
to the FBI.
I and Whitman continued strolling the corridor and found some tasty artichokes and other
frozen delicacy we grab without paying, bring it home at the moment. It was good or maybe I
never have tasted an artichoke before. Maybe my tongue made for luxurious meal like that, I just
could not afford it my whole life. Whitman still lost in wonder, passing the families and their
long unnecessary shopping lists. The shop will close in an hour, and I don’t know where to go.
So, I ask a friend of mine who walk after me “where do we go?”. He was muted, then he gave
me his book. It was an old book covered with brown leather, smells like it was taken from a
thousand years-old library that I have never been there. It feels like I got a fortune cookie on my
hand. When I touched the book, a strange sensation creeping my skin. I thought I have lost my
sense. I knew where I am but my soul got lost, as if I spoke a new language, exciting but easily
get lost in translation. Every sight just did not make any sense for me.
I followed him and kept repeating my previous question. I looked at the book again. I told
him “Your book does not make any sense to me”. And there it was, a random thought pops up in
my head. I knew, I already knew that Whitman came to show me something. He gave me a silent
treatment. I am looking for a gesture, that may lead me to another conclusion about his existence
now. He is looking around the supermarket. I guess, he misses something. He was an American
but spiritually feels strange with this America. He misses his America. The disappointment
instantly showed up in his face.
Again, I asked him to go out from the store, strolling around the city with trees
everywhere. He is still muted. He misses his America when “Oh Captain, My Captain” was
made, people living on farms or in small towns and villages, or when opera entertainment was
still a thing. Not the America filled with typical houses and automobiles. But the image of old
America is still vague to me. I got nothing from him. I asked him again “What America did you
want?”. Maybe he left his Old-World America under the boat on the Lethe.