Gregory Corso

(26 March 1930 – 17 January 2001 / New York City, New York)

Destiny - Poem by Gregory Corso

They deliver the edicts of God

without delay

And are exempt from apprehension

from detention

And with their God-given

Petasus, Caduceus, and Talaria

ferry like bolts of lightning

unhindered between the tribunals

of Space & Time

The Messenger-Spirit

in human flesh

is assigned a dependable,

self-reliant, versatile,

thoroughly poet existence

upon its sojourn in life

It does not knock

or ring the bell

or telephone

When the Messenger-Spirit

comes to your door

though locked

It'll enter like an electric midwife

and deliver the message

There is no tell

throughout the ages

that a Messenger-Spirit

ever stumbled into darkness

Comments about Destiny by Gregory Corso

  • (8/12/2008 6:11:00 PM)

    i almost cannot believe he got himself buried next to Keats, what a joke he makes of the effort next to him, corso is the fist of Ali swinging away, while keats, well, you have just got to relax and prepare for perfection, but hey, another rich american making a joke of the rest of the world......... which one of us gets burired next to rimbaud, perhaps who gets internationally buried next to whitman, might as well just let the gods of american money dispose of as they wish, might as well inpsire violence in sacred accomplishment, i just wish god was shaken from the place it plants its feet, maybe the greatest punch on the nose of the sun setting, , , , , sighsa (Report) Reply

    Diana Howell (6/23/2017 10:11:00 AM)

    Gregory was not rich... ever. His childhood was suffering and abandonment and incarceration in the Tombs for stealing food so he wouldn't starve and breaking into places to sleep so he would not freeze to death on the streets of New York in winter. That he self educated and used his talent to be a post and not a street thug perhaps does entitle him to go have an attitude about - by contrast - all poets who's early lives, by comparizon, we're privileged, steeped in ad feasible education, parents and lineage that were golden chariots that swept them into the poet's life. Not like his life, homeless on the mean streets NYC... No parents around - only his wit nd his ability to entertain preventing him from from being raped and driven to madness by the hardened murderers with whom at fifteen he shared I will cells. You know nothing of him to label him a rich American. You commit the crime ignorance.

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Read poems about / on: god, destiny, time, life

Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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