the chamber of commerce all come in—

  each member carrying hand grenades—

  everything turns into blood—excpt for

  the jukebox, a stranger wearing a—

  calendar, & a postcard of a greek

  building … which the owner of the

  place has left on top of the radiator

  by mistake/ the play now begins … it

  is all in the past … i will not be so insulting as to write it for you

  Seems Like a Black Nite Crash

  between the shrieking mattress in the kitchen & Time, a mysterious weekly—Tao—a fingertip on his chin, his knees knocking together—Tao—he shows the inside of his mouth to a column of faces “does this mean you must take a nap today?” & Phil Silvers eating a banana—he is inside of the column of faces—Tao is quiet & Phil pokes Duff the Hero—a miser from the Aegean Sea—a vast desert in his head—he has plenty of self confidence & lets yokels test bombs in his brain—“love is a ghost thing” says Duff “it goes right thru you” Tao strains—he looks almost pornographic “some tonsils!” says Phil, who now wears long suspenders & tells Duff to keep up the self confidence “self confidence is deceiving” says Mr. O’toole—a husband of questionable virtue “it gives people without balls a sense of virility” “does your wife own a cow?” says Phil, who has now turned into an inexpensive Protestant ambassador from Nebraska & who speaks with a marvelous accent “what do you mean does my wife own a cow?” “are you from Chicago then?” asks the ambassador … Tao’s face—meanwhile—becomes so big—it disappears “where’d he go?” says Duff—who’s not so much of a hero anymore but rather a jolly youth that hates degenerates & is supposed to be in school anyway … Mr. O’toole—falls out of his chair “i must find some railroad tracks—i must put my ear to the tracks—i must listen for a train”—the column of faces—all together now—a munching chorus “DONT GET KILLED NOW”—repeat—“dont get killed now” … yes & between this mattress shrieking & that mysterious weekly lay the slave counties—Doris Day gone &. Pacific fog—a Studebaker in twilight—crash—& breaking down the honkytonk doors & strange left handed moonmen—from Arkansas & Texas & vagabonds with girlie magazines from Reed College—cellars & Queens—they all shouting “watch me Tao—watch me—i’m high—watch me now!” … that lonesome feeling—paralyzing—that lonesome feeling—or aretha—my mama didnt raise no fool—i have nothing new to add to that feeling … slide on vomit—better’n working with a shovel—Reject—God Bless Holy Phantomism & damn the farewell parties—statistic books—the politicians . . the column of faces—all together now—raising the flag & staring up to a hole in it—chanting “it’s halloween! can Tao come out & play?”—getting no reaction & shouting louder—all in unison now—“IT’S HALLOWEEN … CAN TAO COME OUT & PLAY?”

  give up—give up—the ship is lost: go

  back to san bernardino—stop trying to

  organize the crew—it’s every man for

  himself—are you a man or a self? when

  the coast guard gets there, stand up

  proudly & point—dont be a hero—everybody’s

  a hero—be different—dont be a conformist—

  forget about all those sea shanties—just

  stand up & say “san bernardino” in a deep

  monotone … everybody will get the message

  your benefactor

  Smoky Horny

  Chug A Lug—Chug A Lug

  Hear Me Hollar Hi Dee Ho

  he was propped in the crutch of an oak tree—looking down—singing “there’s a man going round taking names” indeed—i nod howdy—he nods howdy back “well he took my mother’s name—lef’ me there in pain” i, who am holding a glass of sand in one hand & a calf’s head in the other—i look up & say “are you hungry?” & he say “there’s a man going round taking names” & i say “good nuff” & keep walking—his voice rings thru the valley—it sounds like a telephone—it is very disturbing—“you need anything up there?”—i’m going to town” he shakes his head “well he took my sister’s name & i aint never been the same” “right-o” i say—tie my shoelace & keep walking—then i turn & say “if you need any help getting down, just you come to town & tell me” he doesnt even hear—“well he took my uncle’s name & you know he wasnt to blame” “groovy” i say & continue my way to town “ it couldnt’ve been more’n a few hours later when i happened to be passing by again—in the spot where the tree was, a lightbulb factory now stood—“did there used to be a guy here in a tree?” i yelled up to one of the windows—“are you looking for work?” was the reply . . it was then when i decided that marxism did not have all the answers

  why are you so frightened of

  being embarrassed? you spend a lot of

  time on the toilet dont you? why

  dont you admit it? why are you so

  embarrassed to be frightened?

  your uncle

  Matilda

  Paradise, Skid Row & Maria Briefly

  fatty Aphrodite’s mama—i bend to you … & with sex mad eternity at my vegetable shadow—i, wiping my hands on the horse’s neck—the horse burping & you of the Indiana older brother—he who whips you with his belt & you who does not look for reason to your torture & i want your horizontal tongue—within Reflex—the perfect doom & these cruel nitemares where brickmasons introduce me to hideous connections & Marx Brothers grunting NO QUIERO TU SABIDURIA & your thighs be half awake & me so Sick so Sick of these lovers in Biblical roles—“so youre out to save the world are you? you impostor—you freak! youre a contradiction! youre afraid to admit youre a contradiction! youre misleading! you have big feet & you will step on yourself all the people you mislead will pick you up! you have no answers! you have just found a way to pass your time! without this thing, you would shrivel up & be nothing—you are afraid of being nothing—you are caught up in it—it’s got you!” i am so Sick of Biblical people𔃈they are like castor oil—like rabies & now i wish for Your eyes—you who does not talk any business & supplies my mind with blankness QUIERO TUS OJOS & your laughing & your slavery … there be no drunken risk—i am an intimate Egyptian—say good-bye to the marine

  hi—just arrived—terrible trip—this

  little man carrying a white mouse

  stared at me the whole way—jesus he

  was a handsome man—are there any good

  lawyers around? will look you up shortly—

  have to eat first

  sincerely yours,

  Froggy

  A Punch of Pacifist

  Peewee the Ear, whose mouth looks like a credit card—him & Jake the Flesh—along with Sandy Bob from Pecos—theyre leading the white elephant to water somewhere between wichita falls & el camino real—it’s late in the day & no word from Saigon is in yet—along comes jerry mc boing-boing’s daughter—Liza the Blimp—riding on a two dollar bill belonging to Goose John Henry, negro medicine man from Denver, who plays folk songs for kicks & speaks french for a living—onward then when Brown Dan, the creep cop—who likes to kill bullfrogs & whose boss keeps saying “he’s got a bad knee but you oughta see him run, babe, you oughta see ’m run & chase them little chink lovers when they come down the river”—anyway Brown Dan—he comes snooping for the strangers with his flunky known simply as Little Stick, who carries a burnt hat pin & two pieces of kotex in case of emergency … they meet up with the crew at a clearing resembling a fisherman’s dwarf … Jim Ghandi, the welder, is overlooking from his window—& yells something like “aw reet ye sons a vermits—draw ye now or shut ye mouths frever” just as the chick spreads her legs into the intersection & lets loose with the bumble seed grease, but nobody sneezes—she begins to yell about who her father is, but this doesnt work either “ her fat two dollar bill falls dead from a bullet—“the flag of tex’s ass is upon ye” screams Jim Ghandi & the chick immediately takes to the hills—Peewee drops his cookies as up drives an XKE with Sandy Bob’s cousin, Sandy Slim, who shows everybody his pictures of Nasser & says “hold it boys, i know all about these things—i used to work in the edsel factory” taking advantage of the confusion, Little Stick steals the white elephant … nobody notices—not even Brown Dan, who by this time is busy beating Jake the Flesh to death with a hacksaw—all in all, the situation in viet nam is very disturbing

  who wants to be noticed anyway? only you,

  who believes what suits you, could speak

  so badly of thelonius baker—what’d he

  ever do to you anyway besides get his

  name in the papers? dont you know that

  everybody wants to pick a moron for you—

  dont concern yourself with all this

  pettiness—it will all pass—think big—

  youve seen the sign—all in all, tho,

  youre a pretty good guy—stay clean—dont waste your money on haircuts—see you

  at the drugstore

  your highness,

  Gumbo the Hobo

  Sacred Cracked Voice

  & the Jingle Jangle Morning

  go on—flutter ye mystic ballad—ah haunting & Tokay jittery ye be like the mad pulse—the mad pulse of child—the children of ring around the rosy & wandering poets over India—the jugglers who call you by the wrong name & title you wounded kitten—it is that easy for they know no fairy tales … in the modal tuning—a pontiac is parked without a leg to stand on—Plague the Kid—crusading in the blues dimension, he—hitchhiking the pontiac—brooding over the highway & searching for Joker—or perhaps the devil’s eight drummer “down with enthusiasm!” says Plague “it is all temporary! away with it!” & Lord Randall playing with a quart of beer—Fanny Blair dragging a judge—Willy Moore, a shoemaker, who counts his thumbs with a switchblade along with Sir James, the dunce, who wears a stovepipe when he goes out on the town—Matty Groves, who secretly at midnight tries to chop down the church steeple with Edward, who cuts hedges for his wages & last but not least—Barbara Allen—she smuggles Moroccan cinders into Brooklyn twice a month & she wears a sheet—she takes many penicillin shots “anything temporary can be used for money reasons” says Plague & all these people—call them what you will—they believe him—yesterday i talked to Abner for forty minutes—he, Abner—cursed out East Texas, tomatoes & tin pan alley—he didnt talk to me—he talked into a mirror—i did not have the courage to crash or shatter myself … when i left him, i met Puff—Puff had nothing but bad words for unemployment, Wrigley’s Spearmint & Rabelais—i slapped myself in the face—he told me i was crazy & my only regret being that i could not fart thru my mouth—i walked away into a dimestore … what i speak of is the crazy unspeakable microphone & great flower celebration—it is not phony vision but rather friendly dark—behold the dark—your strength—the darkness “the matrimony of self & spinal dream” says Plague the Kid & we buy him a boxcar—Hysterical—melody in the Hysterical—as opposed to the music which offers every sound to make life existable excpt that of silence … Houdini & the rest of the ordinary people taking down puckered Jesus posters out there on 61 highway—Midas putting them back up—in the throne sinks Cleo—she sinks because she’s fat … this land is your land & this land is my land—sure—but the world is run by those that never listen to music anyway—“enthusiasm is music which needs a flashlight to be heard” so says Plague

  sorry to say baby but you ARE hung up

  arent you? you know like suppose everybody

  DOES tell you youre like sabatchead

  dajapeeled … you know what happened to him

  after everybody read him—yeah he went

  right up on the shelf … let me know if

  you could use a horse tamer or a good

  worried mind ‥

  your meatman

  Shorty Cookie

  Flunking the Propaganda Course

  strange men with belly trouble & their pin up girls: zelda rat—crooked betty & volcano the leg—here they come—theyre popped out & theyve been seen crying in the chapel—their friend, who says that everybody cries alot—he’s the congressional one & carries the snapshots—his name is Tapanga Red—known in L.A. as Wipe ’M Out—he coughs alot—anyway they walk in—it’s very early & they ask for black mongrels apiece—jenny says “why not roll ’m?” “theyre cops!” says a little boy who just climbed a mountain & who’s learned how to smell in the circus—jenny retires to the pinball machine—steam getting thicker—zelda rat asks for second black mongrel—please make it hot—one of the men, he dangles a watch in front of her face “it’s late—zeld babe—it’s late” & zelda’s face turns into a measle & she says “i’m allergic”—a ringing sound & she say “oh look—that girl over there is getting free balls”—trying to get jenny’s attention, one of the men, he asks “anything bothering you?” jenny replies “yes—whatever happened to Orval Faubus?” & the man quickly drops the subject—his eye swollen he pushes one of the hot mongrels down poor zelda’s dress—asks now does she wanna nother one—everybody breaks into stitches excpt someone who’s talking to a window & jenny, who’s busy racking up balls … the man who looks like an adam’s apple—i think he belongs to crooked betty—he goes thru his stool—volcano—she wraps him in the national insider—everybody reads him—jenny tilts the machine—the man’s dead—just then, the congressional one, he pulls out a luger he says a kraut give to him during the war which is a goddamn lie, & begins to shoot up the barbecue beef signs … the radio plays the star spangled banner—next day, a young arsonist, with a turtle on his head & his hands on his hips & his backbone slipping, sees me walking the donkey on the east side—“saw you with jenny last nite—anything happening there?” i say “oh my God, how can you ask such a thing? dont you know there are starving kids in china?” he say “yes, but that was last nite—today’s a new day” & i say “yeah—well that’s too bad—i still aint gonna tell you nothing about jenny” he calls me an idiot & i say “here take my donkey if it’ll make you feel any better—i’m on my way to the movies anyway” it is five minutes to rush hour—a strange transaction of goods takes place on third avenue—the supermarket explodes from malnutrition—God bless malnutrition

  i dont care what bob hope says—he

  aint going with you nowhere—also, john

  wayne mightve kicked cancer, but you

  oughta see his foot—forget about those

  hollywood people telling you what to do—

  theyre all gonna get killed by the indians—

  see you in your dreams

  lovingly,

  plastic man

  Ape on Sunday

  ZING & they throw him thru the door & he lands in a truck—he gets out somewhere on the Mobile line & says “the war’s going fine—aint it paleface?” & immediately makes a friend … “it’s nice to have friends aint it shit-brain?” this makes a stronger tie & both of ’m together—they go beat up some male secretary who works for a jockey … UNTOUCHABLE—they walk thru the streets of France & poison the dogs & when they get back—both receive medals for bravery “it’s nice to have medals aint it monsterass?” they cannot be separated these two friends … they are invited to speak at religious & college gatherings & finally become board members of the rootbeer industry “it’s nice to have all the rootbeer you can drink aint it fishturd?” an ABSOLUTE bond that cannot be broken … one day one of the friends discovers that he’s never been doing any of the talking … he inquires about it but gets no response—he murders the other friend & some young punk around town—he gets put in jail for 90 years … everything wouldve been overlooked but John Huston—& i do mean John Huston—he made a Bible movie out of it & changed all the names—also there was nothing in the plot of course about the rootbeer stand—other’n that—it was a full drag “i was expecting to see a bit of Mobile”—said Princess “i was really expecting to see a bit of Mobile”—Princess is an ape—she usually goes to movies on Sunday

  look you asshole—tho i might be nothing but

  a butter sculptor, i refuse to go on working

  with the idea of your praising as my reward—

  like what are your credentials anyway? excpt for

  talking about all us butter sculptors, what else

  do you do? do you know what it feels like to

  make some butter sculpture? do you know what

  it feels like to actually ooze that butter around

  & create something of fantastic worth? you said

  that my last year’s work “The King’s Odor” was

  great & then you say i havent done anything as

  great since—just who the hell are you talking to

  anyway? you must have something to do in your

  real life—i understand that you praised the piece

  you saw yesterday entitled “The Monkey Taster”

  about which you said meant “a nice work of butter

  carved into the shape of a young man who likes

  only african women” you are an idiot—it doesnt

  mean that at all … i hereby want nothing to do

  with your hangups—i really dont care what you think

  of my work as i now know you dont understand it