MEXICO CITY BLUES

Other Works by Jack Kerouac

Published by Grove Press

Dr. Sax

Lonesome Traveler

Satori in Paris and Pic (one volume)

The Subterraneans

MEXICO CITY BLUES

Jack Kerouac

Copyright © 1959 by Jack Kerouac

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, or the facilitation thereof, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kerouac, Jack, 1922-1969.

Mexico City blues / Jack Kerouac.

p. cm.

eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9568-5

I. Title.

PS3521.E735M4        1990

813’.54—dc20                        90-2748

Grove Press

an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.

841 Broadway

New York, NY 10003

Distributed by Publishers Group West

www.groveatlantic.com

MEXICO CITY BLUES

MEXICO CITY BLUES

NOTE

I want to be considered a jazz poet

blowing a long blues in an afternoon jam

session on Sunday. I take 242 choruses;

my ideas vary and sometimes roll from

chorus to chorus or from halfway through

a chorus to halfway into the next.

1st Chorus

Butte Magic of Ignorance

Butte Magic

Is the same as no-Butte

All one light

Old Rough Roads

One High Iron

Mainway

Denver is the same

“The guy I was with his uncle was

the governor of Wyoming”

“Course he paid me back”

Ten Days

Two Weeks

Stock and Joint

“Was an old crook anyway”

The same voice on the same ship

The Supreme Vehicle

S. S. Excalibur

Maynard

Mainline

Mountain

Merudvhaga

Mersion of Missy

2nd Chorus

Man is not worried in the middle

Man in the Middle

Is not Worried

He knows his Karma

Is not buried

But his Karma,

Unknown to him,

May end –

Which is Nirvana

Wild men

Who kill

Have Karmas

Of ill

Good men

Who love

Have Karmas

Of dove

Snakes are Poor Denizens of Hell

Have come surreptitioning

Through the tall grass

To face the pool of clear frogs

3rd Chorus

Describe fires in riverbottom

sand, and the cooking;

the cooking of hot dogs

spitted in whittled sticks

over flames of woodfire

with grease dropping in smoke

to brown and blacken

the salty hotdogs,

and the wine,

and the work on the railroad.

$275,000,000,000.00 in debt

says the Government

Two hundred and seventy five billion

dollars in debt

Like Unending

Heaven

And Unnumbered Sentient Beings

Who will be admitted –

Not-Numberable –

To the new Pair of Shoes

Of White Guru Fleece

O j o!

The Purple Paradise

4th Chorus

Roosevelt was worth 6, 7 million dollars

He was Tight

Frog waits

Till poor fly

Flies by

And then they got him

The pool of clear rocks

Covered with vegetable scum

Covered the rocks

Clear the pool

Covered the warm surface

Covered the lotus

Dusted the watermelon flower

Aerial the Pad

Clean queer the clear

blue water

AND THEN THEY GOT HIM

The Oil of the Olive

Bittersweet taffies

Bittersweet cabbage

Cabbage soup made right

A hunk a grass

Sauerkraut let work

in a big barrel

Stunk but Good

5th Chorus

I am not Gregory Corso

The Italian Minnesinger –

Of the Song of Corsica –

Subioso Gregorio Corso –

The Haunted Versemaker

King

Of Brattle Street.

In streets of snow

He wove the show

And worried in tunnels

And mad dog barked

KIND KING MIND

Allen Ginsberg called me

William Burroughs

Is William Lee

Samuel Johnson

Is Under the sea

Rothridge Cole parter

Of Peppers

Is Numbro

Elabora

If you know what I

p a l a b r a

6th Chorus

This Thinking is Stopped.

Buddha’s Secret Moonlight: – is

the Ancient Virtue of laying up

and thinking happy & comfortable

thoughts – This, which modern

Society has branded “Loafing,” is

made available to people now

apparently only by junk.

Self depends on existence of other

self, and so no Solo Universal Self

exists – no self, no other self,

no innumerable selves, no

Universal self and no ideas

relating to existence or non-

existence thereof –

The Greatest, Who Has Undertaken

to Comfort Innumberable Beings

The Kind One

The Art-of-Kindness Master

The Master of Wisdom

The Great Ferryman

The Great Vehicle Being

7th Chorus

He Who is Free From Arbitrary Conceptions

of Being or Non-Being

The Genius of the Elephant

The Destroyer of Elephant-Trainers

by Death

The Destroyer of Elephants by Death

The Destroyer of Death

The Destroyer and Exterminator

of Death

Exterminator of Being and Non-Being

Tathagata

The Essence Master

The Womb

The Manifestor

Man’s Made Essence

Essence’s Made Man

The Maker of Light

The Destroyer of Light

8th Chorus

Mysterious Red Rivers of the North –

Obi Ubang African Montanas

of the Gulchy Peary

Earth –

Lakes of Light – Old Seas –

Mississippi River, Chicago,

the Great Lakes –

The Small Rivers like Indiana,

the Big Ones

Like Amazon.

Joliet flew.

Alma, the River of Snowy Love

– Amida, of Brightest

Perfect

Compassion

The Tamiyani Trail across

the Everglades –

Ai la ra la

la rai la ra –

Singing breasts of women

of earth receiving

Juicy Rivers – red earth

9th Chorus

We’re all taking short cut

Through Death Valley

The Volcanic Mountains

And the Lizard Ice

And the Lice of Sand

– Lhasas of Weedblack

Cock Rock Philtrite –

Redwoods so Huge

They climb passes by God –

The Giant Angels

In the Washington D C Blue Sky

– – The Heroines of Cathedral

Fellaheen Mexico –

Commenting on the Great Cities

of the World,

The Blue Marvel of New Orleans

(land a swamps)

Ingers had done windows

with penal Australia

too – pear Attantisatasa

the Central Essential

Indy Portuga

coit

10th Chorus

The great hanging weak teat of India

on the map

The Fingernail of Malaya

The Wall of China

The Korea Ti-Pousse Thumb

The Salamander Japan

the Okinawa Moon Spot

The Pacific

The Back of Hawaiian Mountains

coconuts

Kines, balconies, Ah Tarzan –

And D W Griffith

the great American Director

Strolling down disgruntled

Hollywood Lane

–  to toot Nebraska,

Indian Village New York,

Atlantis, Rome,

Peleus and Melisander,

And

swans of Balls

Spots of foam on the ocean

11th Chorus

Brown wrote a book called

The White and the Black

N a r c o t i c C i t y

switchin on

Anger Falls –

(musician stops,

brooding on bandstand)

12th Chorus

Indian songs in Mexico

(the Folk Chanties of Children

at dusk jumprope –

at Saturday Night power failure –)

are like the little French Canuckian

songs my mother sings –

Indian Roundelays –

Row Canoe –

Ma ta wacka

Johnny Picotee

Wish-tee

Wish-tee

Negwayable

Tamayara

Para ya

Aztec squeaks

(ONLY THE MOTHERS ARE HAPPY)

13th Chorus

I caught a cold

From the sun

When they tore my heart out

At the top of the pyramid

O the ruttle tooty blooty

windowpoopies

of Fellah Ack Ack

Town that russet noon

when priests dared

to lick their lips

over my thumping meat

heart –

the Sacrilegious beasts

Ate me 10,000 million

Times & I came back

Spitting Pulque

in Borracho

Ork

Saloons

of old Sour Azteca

Askin for more

I popped outa Popocatapetl’s

Hungry mouth

14th Chorus

And when they saw me

Rowin my sailin canoe

Across the lake of dreams

In the Lotus Valley Swamp,

And arrested me

For the size

Of my heart,

T’s’ then I decided

‘Don’t Come Back’

They’ll eat your heart alive

Every time.

But there’s more blood

I shed

Outa my pumpin heart

At Teotihuacan

And everywhere else

Including Turban Block,

Lookout, Ork –

I got more water

Pissed in the Ocean

As a sailor of the several

seas

Than Sallow’s

Aphorism

will allow

15th Chorus

Meaning –

I’m just an old calvert

cross

dead of die pork

I believe in the sweetness

of Jesus

And Buddha –

I believe

In St.Francis,

Avaloki

Tesvara,

the Saints

Of First Century

India A D

And Scholars

Santivedan

And Otherwise

Santayanan

Everywhere

16th Chorus

Santayana meaning,

holy vehicle,

Uno –

One Cross

One Way

One Cave inward

down

to

moon

Shining essences

of universes of stars

disseminated into powder

and dust –

blazing

in the dynamo

of our thoughts

in the forge

of the moon

In the June

of black bugs

in your bed

of hair earth

17th Chorus

Starspangled Kingdoms bedecked

in dewy joint –

DON’T IGNORE OTHER PARTS

OF YOUR MIND, I think,

And my clever brain sends

ripples of amusement

Through my leg nerve halls

And I remember the Zigzag

Original

Mind

of Babyhood

when you’d let the faces

crack & mock

& yak & change

& go mad utterly

in your night

firstmind

reveries

talking about the mind

The endless Not Invisible

Madness Rioting

Everywhere

18th Chorus

The bottom of the repository

human mind

The Kingdom of the Mind,

The Kingdom has come.

It’s the only thing you got free,

the Mind

Per Se Williams, the critic

and author,

Slept in a rainbow

When he discovered

the perfect accommodation

of Universal Mind

in its active aspect

You’ll have a Period of Golden Age

Restitution of Loss

I’ve had all I can Eat

Revisiting Russet towns

Of long ago

On carpets of bloody sawdust

19th Chorus

Christ had a dove on his shoulder

– My brother Gerard

Had 2 Doves

And 2 Lambs

Pulling his Milky Chariot.

Immersed in fragrant old

spittoon water

He was Baptized by Iron

Priest Saint Jacques

De Fournier in Lowell

Massachusetts

In the Gray Rain Year,

1919

When Chaplin had Spats

and Dempsey

Drank no whisky by the track.

My mother saw him in heaven

Riding away, prophesying

Everything will be alright

Which I have learned now

By Trial & Conviction

In the Court of Awful Glots

20th Chorus

The Art of Kindness A Limping Sonnet

How the art of kindness doth excite,

The ressure and the intervening tear,

What horizons have they fled,

What old time’s blearest dream!

But atta pressure of the Two Team,

Finding nothing to surfeit the bloated corpse,

Rabbed the Whole She bo be bang

And rounded them a Team.

Beam! Bleam! So no one cared.

Except the High Financier.

Ah, but wine was never Made

That sorely tongues gave grace & aid.

Because I cant write a sonnet

Does that make me Shakespeare?

There’s a sonnet of the lotus

A rubicund rose

Death in a rose

Is prouder than satin

Emerald Isles

Blest

In the Archipelagoan

Shore –

Ferry’s arrived.

21st Chorus

Not very musical, the Western ear

– No lyres in the pines

compare with the palms

Western Sorcery is Sad Science –

Mechanics go mad

In Nirvanas of hair

and black oil

and rags of dust

and lint of flint

Hard iron fools raging in the gloom

But here’s East, Cambodian

Saloons of Air

And Clouds Blest.

Blakean Angel Town.

Grove of Beardy Trees

& Bearded Emptily –

Expressing Patriarchal

Authority

To us listeners

Of the Holy See

Saw,

said,

Saved

Saved my Bhikkucitas

22nd Chorus

Saved my bhikkucitos

for the holy hair

that was found wanting

in merde air –

Ninety devils jokin with me

And I’m running on the catwalk

At Margaritee

Jumping from car to car

In a 60 mile freight

Runnin up the pass maw

Tunnel Gore waited Ore

The fantastic steelsmoke

In choke mad tunnels

of Timbercountry Calif.

where if I’d-a fell,

I’d-a fell on peb pebbles

of sore iron grit,

of hard put to it

Importunate fool that I was,

I raved to fight Saviors

Instead of listening in

To the Light – still a fool

23rd Chorus

CHORUS NO. 1 of

Blues in Bill’s Pad

CHORUS NO. 23 of

San Francisco Blues

FOURTEEN CHORUSES

of Blue City Blues

Fifteen O Choruses

of Genu wine blues

Sing you a blues song

sing you a tune

Sing you eight bars

of Strike Up the Band

Eight of Indiana, eight

of Israel,

Eight of Chubby’s Chubby,

eight of old Wardell

Yes baby, Count Blue

Basie’s fat old Chock

Wallopin Fat Rushing

Was a wow old saloon man

24th Chorus

All great statements ever made

abide in death

All the magnificent & witty

rewards of French Lettrism

Abide in death

All the Roman Sculptor

of Heroes, all Picassos

and Micassos and

Macayos

and

Machados

and Kerouaco’s –

even Asvaghosha’s Glorious Statement

and Asanga’s and Holy Sayadaw

and all the good and kind saints

and the divine unabstractable ones

the holy and perfect ones

All Buddhas and Dharmas

All Jesuses and Jerusalems

And Jordans and How are You’s

– Nil, none, a dream,

A bubble pop, a foam snit

in the immensities of the sea

at midnight in the dark

25th Chorus

Dont worry about death

Once you’re there

Because it is trackless

Having no track to follow

You will rest where you are

In inside of the essence

But the moment I say essence

I draw that word back

And that remark – essence’s

Unspoken, you cant say a word,

essence is the word for the finger

that shows us bright blankness

When we look into the God face

We see radiant irradiation

From middleless center

Of Objectless fire roe-ing

In a fieldstar all its own

Is my own, is your own,

Is not Owned by Self-Owner

but found by Self-Loser –

Old Ancient Teaching

26th Chorus

Knew all along

That when chicken is eaten

Rooster aint worried

And when Rooster is eaten

Chicken aint worried

Because what’s there to worry

What’s there to grow teeth

To eat rebirth’s beginningless

Meat of Eternal Comeback?

For Christ Sake stop saying

And saving your lives,

It’s only one more hour

Beyond your pale light

There’s no end on all sides

The saylessness, the sayless ork

awk ah of child

on afternoon sidewalk

Or of Hurubela Elephant Cow

of Ant Colonies

M’e’r y o cking

in a moment

of the Landscape day

in Vast Acadian

Pure Land –

Buddha loved all sentient beings

27th Chorus

Krissake Wakeup

Nuts like Carl Solomon

A sharp Jew I know,

Say that all’s already ended,

A dream a long time done.

Sit in the Bedlam high

Inside Mind listening dreaming

To the music of the time

Coming through the Aura Hole

Of Old Father Time

Mustache on a Jimmy the Greek

stage

Ork, song of Nova Scotia,

Silly, any, songs,

Floating in the Open Blue,

Balancing on Balloons,

Balloons, BALLOONS,

BALLOONS of Rosé Hope,

balloons Balloons BALLOONS

the Vast Integral Crap

a

Balloons

BALLOONS is your time

Balloons is the ending

THAT’S THE SCENE

28th Chorus

The discriminating mind.

Discrimination is when, say,

you’re offered something

And you accept it one way

or the other,

Not thinking of improving;

Then comes the Craft Gleam

And you look over to see

What’s to be to advantage,

And find it, pouncin like a Puma,

Like a Miser Hero of Gold

Cellars

& Herring

in barrels,

– And you seek to achieve

Greater satisfaction

Which is already impossible

Because of Supreme Reality

and Time

And Timelessness Entire

All conjoined & arranged & finished

By Karmas of Rue

In heavenlands remote –

You suffer & you fall,

You discriminate a ball.

29th Chorus

“Man, now, you wont let me talk”

Gripes the irreligious feline cat –

That cat has no trumpet

But bubblegum to blow on

Poor sad Bhikku of the Forest

Of poor, lost little Nino

In Calles of Forever,

Streets of Old Burma,

Be saved secret wretched

Urchin brother hero

You are protected

By the Guardians

of

the

Alone

All is alone, you dont have to talk

One Light, One Transcendental Ecstasy

If they dont understand that

In the South, it’s because

All their Baptists

Have not been to Shool

30th Chorus

Tender is the Night

Tender is the Eve Star

F. Scott Fitzgerald, the Alamoan

Huckster Crockett Hero

Who burned his Wife Down

and tore up the 95 Devils

with crashes of laughter

and breaking of glass

in the monocled Ibyarritz

the Little Grey Fox

OF NEW HAVEN CONN

via Princeton O Sure

Tender is the marlin spike,

Tender is the sea,

Tender the London Fog

That Befalls to Me

Tender is the Cat’s Bath

Blue Meow

The Little Grey Fox

That nibbled at the grapes

Tender was his foreskin,

tender his Nape.

31st Chorus

Three Saints in Four Acts

by Gertrude Stein

A Great Prophet

is a Great Teacher

But he is also

a Great Saint

And he is furthermore

a Great Man

And more than that

an incomparable listener

to music and non-music

everywhere

And a Great Sitter Under Trees,

And a Man of Trees,

And a Man of Sorrows,

And a Lemon Light

of Angel Sounds

and Singer of Religion

wild singer of come-igion

wild lover of the origin

wild hater of hate his own

Convulsive writer of Poems

And dialog for Saints

Stomping their feet

On Pirandelloan stage

32nd Chorus

Newton’s theory of relativity

and grave gravity

Is that rocks’ll fall on your head

Pluto is the Latest Star

Astronomical facts

from under the bar.

Little cottages on hills receive

the Constellation of

the Southern Hemisphere

Where rosy doves’re seen flyin

Past Pis Cacuaqaheuro

Monte Visto de Santo

De Gassa – healing helium

gas – from the substance

on the sun star –

gas discovered on the sun

by spectral gazing

Sorcerers hoppity skop

with the same familiarity

In my Buddhaland dreams –

Monotonous monotony

of endless grape dirigible stars

33rd Chorus

A vast cavern, huh?

I stop & jump to other field

And you wander around

Like Jap prisoners

In Salt Lake Cities

Under San Francisco’s

Sewage disaster.

“An explorer of souls

and cities –”

“A lowdown junkey” –

“Who has discovered

that the essence of life

is found only in the poppy plant

with the help of odium

the addict explores

the world anew

and creates a world

in his own image

with the help of Madame

Poppy

I’m an idealist

who has outgrown

my idealism

I have nothing to do

the rest of my life

but do it

and the rest of my life

to do it”

34th Chorus

“I have no plans

No dates

No appointments with anybody

So I leisurely explore

Souls and Cities

Geographically I’m from

and belong to that group

called Pennsylvania Dutch

But I’m really a citizen

of the world

who hates Communism

and tolerates Democracy

Of which Plato said 2000 years

ago,

Was the best form of bad government

I’m merely exploring souls & cities

From the vantage point

Of my ivory tower built,

Built with the assistance

of Opium

That’s enough, isnt it?”

35th Chorus

It was the best show,

the guys used to give up

a good movie

just to hear him talk

Now is the Time

Now is the Time

To kill an hour

and Delaware Punch

each

A Star is Born –

muckle lips in the movie

“I’d rather not” –

“I really dont wanta go” –

Yeah, fuck the movie.

Fuck the mambo.

Fuck is a dirty word

But it comes out clean.

Everything (after a gasp)

is fine, already really.

Whatever it was.

“Anyway it happened”

Says Allen (Poe) Ginsberg –

Quote from Plato right?

Time on a Bat – growl of truck.

36th Chorus

No direction

No direction to go

Burroughs says it’s a time-space

travel ship

Connected with mystiques

and mysteries

Of he claims transcendental

majesties,

Pulque green crabapples

of hypnotic dream

In hanging Ecuad vine.

Burroughs says, We have destiny,

Last of the Faustian Men.

No direction in the void

Is the news from the void

In touch with the void

Everywhere void

No direction to go

(but)

(in) ward

Hm

(ripping of paper indicates

helplessness anyway)

37th Chorus

Mad about the Boy –

Tune – Fué –

Going along with the dance

Lester Young in eternity

blowing his horn alone

Alone – Nobody’s alone

For more than a minute.

Growl, low, tenorman,

Work out your tune till the day

Is break, smooth out the rough night,

Wail,

Break their Beatbutton bones

On the Bank of Broad

England Ah Patooty

Teaward Time

Of Proust & bearded

Majesty

In rooms of dun ago

in long a lash

alarum speakum

mansions tennessee

of gory william tree

– (remember that little

box of tacks?)

38th Chorus

(Pome beginning with parenthesis:–

God!)

Garver has an Aztec Hammer

To batter the tacks in

It’s made of Pyramid Stone

The shape of a Knot –

Cleopatra’s Knot –

The Knotty issue Marc

Brandelian Antonio

Julius Marc McAnthony

Thorny horn of hare

Propensities and hair

And disgusting to the bare.

Aztec Hammer, never stop.

Folded ripplefold over there

nice,

Tacks went in,

“It’s take an artist

to do all this”

Careful man of cellophane

decks

&

sometimes

ceremonial

silver foil

but

usually

plain pleasant paper

39th Chorus

Comfortable Patience –

Talkin about a Hobbyman

Who draws cartoons for a livin,

Bangin in tacks carefully

For King Features Syndicate

Has got him by the balls

And Hammerthongs

And central Goonyak

Worp Ward

Orphantail –

Aztec Stick –

ugly Spew Smoke

Dragon Beoryen

smitherwolf

Wildstar

Monster Over the Fence

is Frankenstein

Careful, true, Nirvana,

Patient in his Comfort,

Humble in his Demands,

Weary of the Fear,

No longer fearing

The fair happy air

Permeated with Cherub

And fingers a pair

In V Victory – meaning One

40th Chorus

Did bespat and beshit himself Rabelais,

Roundelay, singing with a chocolate

mouth

Did tangle in the gangles

of legs’ hair

And scream with the wine

in his glut.

“What do you think?”

This cover is most excellent,

It’s shiny and red,

This car will do nicely

All over the bed.

Rabelais was a mad nut

And also a doctor

And wrote of priests’ jocks

In 1492

Wha’ hoppen in Oaxaca?

– gluts rained glut

guts out of her

brimy bottard

and washed the old man’s

river underwear

41st Chorus

That other part of your mind

Where everything’s refined

To thin hare screamers

Must be in the cavern

Somewhere.

But was is its self-nature

of location?

Nada, nadir, naparinirvana

ni parinirvana

But Most Excellent & Wise,

the Glorious Servant

of Sentient Needs

Tathagata Akshobya,

Brother of Merudhvhaga,

Kin to Sariputra –

Holy & Wise

Like John in the Wood

42nd Chorus

POEM WRITTEN ON A SAILBOAT

It’s a powerful sock powerful

Mock powerful breeze blowin

Across this leeward shirsh

Of fought waters thrashin

Up to spit on the deck

Of Heroing Man,

Ah, as we sail the jibboom

Upon the va va voom

And Saltpeter’s her petter

Again, the Larceny Commission’ll

Hear of this, fight the lawyers,

Upset the silly laws, anger

the

hare

brain

bird

of

wine

In his railroad tam o shanter

Commemorative termagant

Able to dissect such tycoon

Burpers outa their B Movies’

Investment in Black.

‘Bop’

Even on a sailboat

I end up writin bop

43rd Chorus

Mexico City Bop

I got the huck bop

I got the floogle mock

I got the thiri chiribim

bitchy bitchy bitchy

batch batch

Chippely bop

Noise like that

Like fall in off porches

Of Tenement Petersburg

Russia Chicago O Yay.

Like, when you see,

the trumpet kind, horn

shiny in his hand, raise

it in smoke among heads

he bespeaks, elucidates,

explains and drops out,

end of chorus, staring

at the final wall

where in Africa

the old men petered

out on their own account

using their own Immemorial

Salvation Mind

SLIPPITY BOP

44th Chorus

Waves of cantos and choruses

And lilypads of anything

Like flying carpets that are

nowhere

And all’s bugged with the scene –

Ah I wish I could fight out

Of this net of mistakes

And anxieties among others

Who wait in my silence

Till I end up my work

Which never began and

Never will end – hah –

Bespeak thyself not, soft spot,

Aurorum’s showed his Mountain

Top

Of Eastern be Western morning

To Indicate by Moon Magic

Constellative Stardom

of

Gazers

in Mock Roman

Arabian Kimonos,

the lay of the pack

in the sky

45th Chorus

Euphonism, a softening of sounds

Euphemism, a softened word –

One is sonic, one is human

Both are imaginary metaphors

Metaphysical Exception taken

by the old euphonious

phoney of Arkansaw

River bridge

Excisor of taxes via tickets

of taxes

With what Euphonic

doesnt-matter

Really pronunciation

price

Dolichocephalic?

Ichthyocephalic,

Encephalotherapy.

Dont point at your head

The Judge says you’re crazy

Breaky cephalic

Ouch

Inch of Grace, sigh.

46th Chorus

I had a dream that Bill

G. here, was lying on his bed

talking to me in a room

in Mexico City on a

horrible afternoon, as

he mumbles information

about the crossroads of the world

I wander like a Giggling Ling

Chinese boy without rice

in a Fog Over Grass

Land vast and like life,

– in my thoughts – but

return to re-listen to what

he was saying, about loaning

money on interest, Christians,

Medicis, Churches, therefores,

Coats of Arms, Balls,

Bridge Post Pots, Guards,

I realize I am dreaming

In beginnings already

And ending’s nowhere

To be seen

Yet forgotten –

Is all

47th Chorus

Where is Italy?

How can I find it in my mind

If my mind is endless.

Skulls on the slavemarket,

blacksmiths, doctors –

I end up bleakly giggling

in gleak romany rooms

Sliced by Sardinian fiends

And shot fulla morphine

By sadistic doctors

That didnt dream of Japan

With me the night I dreamed

Of the Japanese Boy

With black wool cap

Sitting on a wall

On Kamikaze Boulevard

Near the Sea’s Hurricane,

In low gloomy dark

Dusk of War 1943 –

What happened in Italy?

48th Chorus

Marco Polo had canals

and Venetian genitals,

In the war between Genoa

and Venicia,

Marco Polo’s was captured

And then they wrote the book

And that’s all she wrote,

Because after that

the Wandering Jesuit

Italian Monk

made his way to the wall

in the China – far

in the Indes of the

Saints,

far in the cave of reality

down the suicide steps

into underground caves

where worshippers

like Ignatius Loyola

and the Hearer & Answerer

of Prayer, Samantabhadra,

what’s his Indian name,

preside

(like before they were born)

49th Chorus

They got nothing on me

at the university

Them clever poets

of immensity

With charcoal suits

and charcoal hair

And green armpits

and heaven air

And cheques to balance

my account

In Rome benighted

by White Russians

Without care who puke

in windows

Everywhere.

They got nothing on me

‘Cause I’m dead

They cant surpass me

‘Cause I’m dead

And being dead

I hurt my head

And now I wait

Without hate

For my fate

To estate

50th Chorus

Maybe I’m crazy, and my parts

Are scattered still – didnt gather

Em when form was passin out

The window of the giver,

So I’m looking for derangement

To bring me landward back

Through logic’s cold moon air

Where water everywhere

Appears from magic gems

And Asphasiax the Nymph

of India by the Sea

Dances princely mincing

churly jargots

In the oral eloquent air

of tents’

Canopied majesty,

Ten thousand Buddhas

Hiding Everywhere –

How can I be crazy

Even here?

– or wait

Maybe I’m an Agloon

doomed to be spitted

on the igloo stone

of Some North mad

51st Chorus

America is a permissible dream,

Providing you remember ants

Have Americas and Russians

Like the Possessed have Americas

And little Americas are had

By baby mules in misty fields

And it is named after Americus

Vespucci of Sunny Italy,

And nobody cares how you hang

Your spaghetti wash

On the Pasta Rooftops

Of Oh Yawn Opium

Fellaheen Espagna

Olvierto Milano

Afternoon, when men

gamble & ramble & fuck

and women watch the wash

with one eye on the grocer boy

and one eye on the loon

and one eye

in the universe

is Tathagata’s

Transcendental

orb of balloon

52nd Chorus

I’m crazy everywhere

Like the guy sailed on that ferry

for 3 years

Between Hong Kong & China –

The British shoulda given him

temporary residence in Hong Kong;

but they didnt want any part

of him first place he didnt

have any money

Citizen somehow

of a country behind the Iron Curtain

Ex-Spy from Skid Row

I’m crazy everywhere

like Charlie Chaplin

dancing in moral turpitude

playing Bluebeard killer

on satin asskiss couches

with itchy mustache

so well known to dreamers

of Choice’s Century

Every one of us Roman Circus

sacrifices, every one,

Returned for payment

In America Madhouse

53rd Chorus

Merrily we roll along

Dee de lee dee doo doo doo

Merrily merrily all the day

Roll along, roll along,

O’er the deep blue sea

“Yes, life woulda been

a mistake without music”

Most primitive thing we know

About man is music, drums –

first thing we hear – drums,

fifes, reed instruments –

naturals – catgut violins

and heavenly lyres

and along that line

what the hell’s the name

of that instrument

the Aeolian Lyre

by the Sea

The Organ they made too –

Demosthenes listened by the sea

with a rock in his teeth

And complained when he spent

more on bread than wine –

S h h h says the Holy Sea

54th Chorus

One night in 1941 I was a kid

And ran away from college

And took a bus to the South

Where bedbugs got in my hair

In the Heatwave Night

And all I saw on the long

Avenue were Negroes

Once I went to a movie

At midnight, 1940, Mice

And Men, the name of it,

The Red Block Boxcars

Rolling by (on the Screen)

Yessir

life

finally

gets

tired

of

living –

On both occasions I had wild

Face looking into lights

Of Streets where phantoms

Hastened out of sight

Into Memorial Cello Time

55th Chorus

When I was in the hospital

I had a big fat nurse

Who kept looking over my shoulder

At the book I was reading,

‘The Brothers Karamazov,’

By Gambling Man Fyodor

Dostoevsky

Of Czarist Russia, a Saint,

And in the chapters

called Pro and Con

She kept giggling & insisting

That Pro meant Prophylactic

and Con Contraceptive

In all her laughs & gestures.

Of this Holy Nurse

I learned bed wet

comforts of hot water

and senile satisfaction

‘I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen’

Sang the old white Cancer man

in the corner

when the children guitared

at my footbed,

Kolya Krosotkins

of my railroad

56th Chorus

At another hospital

I almost died

With ecstasy

Glancing at the Babylonian

Rooftops of the Bronx,

And at my fellow

Kaiser was dying of Leukemia,

Not enough thick blood,

I had too much.

I was dying of die-sadness,

Others had diabetes

like my Uncle John;

Others had sores in the stomach,

ulcers, worriers? –

Sexfiends I’d say.

Old Italian Fruiterer

Had Banti’s Awful Disease,

the bloating of the belly

by undigested water

come from food,

everything he ate

turned to water.

57th Chorus

Green goofballs,

Blue Heavens,

Sodium amythol,

Sleeping compound.

Thirty of em

To commit suicide –

Lethal dose is 30 to 50

Times the therapeutic dose,

The therapeutic dose is une –

Take thirty to be safe –

Or else praps forty be better –

If you take too many

You throw em up –

You gotta let alone

Your stomach, if you

threw it right down

you would throw it up

then, in lethal powder

form

Better to eat the capsules

Swallow about six at a time,

Take em with cold water,

Till you get about 35 in ya

And then lay down on your back

58th Chorus

All about goofballs,

all about morphine,

so I read all about it,

that’s what it said,

‘Lethal dose is 30 times

the Therapeutic dose’

Very painful death, morphine

or heroin; never

Try to kill yourself with

heroin or morphine;

It’s a very painful death.

Doctor gave me a mainline shot

Of H grain – Jesus I

thought the whole building

was falling on me –

went on my knees, awake,

lines come under my eye

I looked like a madman

In 15 minutes I begin

to straighten up a little bit

Says “Jesus Bill I thought

you was dead

A goner, the way you

looked

When you’re standin there”

59th Chorus

Then I always manage to get

my weekly check on Monday,

Pay my rent, get my laundry

out, always have enough

Junk to last a coupla days

Have to buy a couple needles

tomorrow, feels like

Shovin a nail in me

Just like shovin a nail in me

Goddamn – (Cough) –

For the first time in my life

I pinched the skin

And pushed the needle in

And the skin pinched together

And the needle stuck right out

And I shot in and out,

Goofed half my whole shot

On the floor –

Took another one –

Nothin a junkey likes better

Than sittin quietly with a new shot

And knows tomorrow’s plenty more

60th Chorus

Cil

Rubberbands Seventyfivedollars

I came out of the dream

That time with mind made

Of misery and tried to remember

the member

of the ball

who it did seem to me

was the most proficient

at devaluating the advance

of my profit & loss

company, Holmes –

Whatever that means

It means that I have been asked

To receive a brother

Who sinned against me

And I knew all the time

The Saints were for me.

The Saints are still for me,

are Still,

Chico,

small angels,

I am still for them

I got eyes of Avalokitesvara

61st Chorus

And all my own sins

Have been forgiven somewhere –

I dont even remember them,

I remember the sins of others.

Let me meditate on my sins.

(Judgment Gate, somebody

stuck a spear

through the heart

of the Judgment Gate)

(with her surl of leer)

and that’s how we got in

Powerful Tea you gotta smoke

to believe that

About the actual honey

of women’s limbs

Archangels have true eyes –

They look sideways at you

And make you excise

The end from the tax bit

of your doubts –

’S all about angels’ sins

62nd Chorus

A warrant for arrest

Is a mandate,

An order from the Court

Or from the Roayal Coart

Or from the Royal King

Or from

the Royal Coast,

or Coat of Arms,

or Charms,

Boudoirs,

Histories by Voltaire,

Arrested disorderly

Louis Ferdinand Celine’s

of South Africa

murderous intelligent

If you got a lot a money

You’re a felon

If you got not but little money

Misdemeanor

Mal-Hishaps-Deameaning

Lost Ass-Kicked Out

or go to jail

Keep the door locked

63rd Chorus

Rather gemmy,

Said the King of Literature

Sitting on a davenport

at afternoon butler’s tea.

Rather gemmy, hm,

Always thought these sonnets

Of mine, were rather gemmy,

As you say,

pureperfect gems

of lucid poetry

Poetry being what it is today

Rather gemmy, I concluded,

thinking you were right –

It isnt my fault that Buddha

gave me helmet

Of Right Thought, and indices

of long Saints

To Cope my Lope along

with,

Seeing I never had harm

from anything

But a Heavenly Farm.

64th Chorus

I’d rather die than be famous,

I want to go live in the desert

With long wild hair, eating

At my campfire, full of sand,

Hard as a donut

Cooked by Sand

The Pure Land

Moo Land

Heavenland Righteous

sping

the thing

I’d rather be in the desert sand,

Sitting legs crossed, at lizard

High noon, under a wood

Board shelter, in the Dee Go

Desert, just west a L A,

Or even in Chihucha, dry

Zackatakies, High Guadalajara,

– absence of phantoms

make me no king –

rather go in the high lone land

of plateau where you can hear

at night the zing of silence

from the halls of Assembled

65th Chorus

To understand what I’m say in

You gotta read the Sutras,

The Sutras of the Ancients, India

Long ago, when campfires at night

Across the Rahuan River

Showed lines of assembled bo’s

With bare feet bare the naked

Right shoulders of passing houris,

Sravasti late at night, tinkle

Goes the Indian Dancinggerl –

There’s One Thousand

Two hundred and fifty

Men

Sitting around a grove

of trees

Outsida town

right now

With Buddha

Is their leader

Discoursing in the middle,

Sitting lotus posture,

Hands to the sky,

Explaining the Dharma

In a Sutra so high

66th Chorus

Dharma law

Say

All things is made

of the same thing

which is a nothing

All nothings are the same

as somethings

the somethings

are no-nothings,

equally blank

Blank

bright

is the whole scene

when you let your eyes

wander beyond the mules

and the fields and carpets

and bottles on the floor

and clean mahogany radios,

dont be afraid

the raid hasnt started

panic you not

day the better

arriveth soon

And the gist of it Nothingness

SUCH-NESS

67th Chorus

Suchness

Is Tathata, the name,

Used,

to mean, Essence,

all things is made

of the same thing

essence

The thing is pure nature,

not Mother Nature

The thing is to express

the very substance of your thoughts

as you read this

is the same as the emptiness

of space

right now

and the same as the silence you hear

inside the emptiness

that’s there

everywhere,

so nothing in the way

but ignorant sofas

and phantoms & chairs,

nothing there but the picture

in the movie in your mind

68th Chorus

My disciples of the modern world.

Christ was born in a barn because

the inn was full. Egyptian,

Babylonian, African. They

met in the desert and saw

the star and God was

s’posed to have spoken to em

– picked up.

Like wild.

A hayloft in a barn.

All will appeal

to Slaves

Every saint of Christ

was the guilt of slaves

Inherit the Earth, O

Camel thru the eye

of a needle

Rich man full of heaven

follow me

Poor

Never die.

69th Chorus

Mary

Who’s my mother?

Goes back to Isis

Who is my mother?

Christ said – You are

all my mothers.

All my brothers

and sisters.

Peace.

The faith

and belief

in him

That

through their faith

eyes of God –

But the Catholic Church

S hw vass iss?

70th Chorus

Who is my father?

Who is my mother?

Who is my brother?

Who is my sister?

I say you’re all my father

all my mother

all my sister

all my brother

“Rather a good thing”

– that we’re all

brothers & sisters

Men Of Good Will

is Something we Need

in the World Today

Men of Philosophy

that Cannot be of Good

Will

Are the Communists

& Fanatical Jews

71st Chorus

Fanatical spews

Fanatical mews

It is magic

That men have anything

to do with birth

Say the Primitives.

“I never objected to the word

God”

The crazy sex

the Protestant has

They’re Brigham Me Young

God hid some tablets

full of Gold Heroin

In the Mormon Bible

And flew pigeons & cocks

Welcome Home

72nd Chorus

The higher criticism

If you know what I mean

“Literary Criticism?”

“No –Bible.”

Every chapter & phase

Historical, anthropological,

Archaeological, Logical,

Magical,

There’s not after they

get thru with the Bible

Much of it Left

Mo the Span

Pure Boy

I must naw

remember

Nao

73rd Chorus

The Book of Pluviums

“You want some coffee

before I get it too good?”

A O Kay,

Straighten me out.

Zarooomooo

(The Bus outdoors)

and he-hey the

Nay Neigh

of the Heaven

Mule

Nice clean Cup

Mert o Vik lu

Nut – upanu.

Yes

Sir.

Merp.

HOOT GIBSON

74th Chorus

“Darling!”

Red hot.

That kind of camping

I dont object to

unless it’s kept

within reason.

“The coffee is delicious.”

This is for Vidal

Didnt know I was

a Come-Onner, did you?

(Come-on-er)

I am one of the world’s

Great Bullshitters,

Girls

Very High Cantos

75th Chorus

But cantos oughta sing

HE WAS AN

OLD CROOK

The hand of death

Wrote itself

Jumping over the moon

With a Cow and Jesus

Now Onions, chickens,

Noodle end of it

Mo

Not too many hands

of death

In slave Arabia

the post hot

Top town

of

Thieves

76th Chorus

A GUYS ASKING A QUESTION

It’s better not to wake them up

So they wont know

They’re dreaming?

It’s better to wake them up

because

they’re dreaming.

It’s not better to wake them up

because they dont know

that they’re dreaming?

Who, no, who said I

was dreaming?

You said, who said, I say

You’re dreaming?

Lise is a fl dreamy

phantasm

“Go on, you’re having one big dream,

That would be my answer.” (Bill)

77th Chorus

“Dreery my dear”

The time we crossed Madrid

in a car

and Kelly pointed out

the dreary Spanish

Ar chitecture

As they OO’ed

And aa’ed

In a hired

Li mousine

Of the Zara

Nazarenes

smiling to be bold

in foretold of old

And they stopped

At a balcony

78th Chorus

A Porte Corrière

Of Spanish

Portugy

Blazed

By guitars

Like Spanish Cows

Ortega y gassa

Monte de eleor

De manta

Moda

Fawt

Ta caror

Ta fucka

Erv old

Men

79th Chorus

Story About What?

(Story About Babyhood)

While walking down

the boulevard

Contemplating suicide

I sat down at a table

And much to my surprise

My friend was goofing

at a table

And he was goofing out loud

And this is the result

Of what he Said.

Take your pick

Winds up in such

A predicament

You won’t know

What to do with yourself

Live or die

80th Chorus

GOOFING AT THE TABLE

“You just dont know.”

“What dont I know?”

“How good this ham n eggs

is

“If you had any idea

whatsoever

How good this is

Then you would stop

writing poetry

And dig in.”

“It’s been so long

since I been hungry

it’s like a miracle.”

Ah boy but them bacon

And them egg –

Where the hell

is the scissor?

SINGING:– “You’ll never know

just how much I love you.”

81st Chorus

Mr Beggar & Mrs Davy –

Looney and CRUNEY,

I made a pome out of it,

Havent smoked Luney

& Cruney

In a Long Time.

Dem eggs & dem dem

Dere bacons, baby,

If you only lay that

down on a trumpet,

‘Lay that down

solid brother

‘Bout all dem

bacon & eggs

Ya gotta be able

to lay it down

solid –

All that luney

& fruney

82nd Chorus

Fracons, aeons, & beggs,

Lay, it, all that

be bobby

be buddy

I didnt took

I could think

So

bepo

beboppy

Luney & Juney

–if–

that’s the way

they get

kinda hysterical

Looney & Boony

Juner and Mooner

Moon, Spoon, and June

83rd Chorus

Dont they call them

cat men

That lay it down

with the trumpet

The orgasm

Of the moon

And the June

I call em

them cat things

“That’s really cute,

that un”

William

Carlos

Williams

84th Chorus

SINGING:–

By the light

Of the silvery moon

I like to spoon

To my honey

I’ll

Croon

Love’s Dream

By the light

Of the silvery moon

We’ll O that’s the

part I dont remember

ho ney moon –

Croon –

Love –

June –

O I dont know

You can get it out of a book

If the right words are

important

85th Chorus

Do you really need

the right word

Do you really need

Of course it’s all asinine

Forms of asininity

Once & for all

Mr. William Carlos

Williams

Anyway,

An asinine form

which will end

all asininity

from now on

That’s a poem

The poem

Will end

Asininity

86th Chorus

Take your pick,

If you wanta commit suicide.

So that we’ll know

What it woulda been

like without life.

Woulda been like

Peaceful and Golden.

A Crashing Movie

The world

Full of beet skins

And fist stars

And editorial

Poon yaks.

A crashing movie

The World

Full of craze

Beware

The Share

is Merde

Air

87th Chorus

These things in a big structure of Confession –

And “Later” – “Later the Road” –

Or “On the Road” simply. New

Haven Railroads of the Night

Couldnt be Tighter, than Slaw,

The Riverbottom Rog Man, Screaming

In the Passaic Rocks ready to throat

And drown the sodden once-dry dog

In a multifarious Pool of Pearls

Containing Amethystine Paradises

And Worlds a Hundred Million in Number

Fit for the following Kings:

Ashapur, Parteriat, Klane,

Thor, Mordelowr, Power,

Thwatmalee, Rizottle the Bottle

The Funny King of the Aisles –

Ah the insane –

Make it a great story & confession

Of all the crazy people you’ve known

Since early Nineteen Fifty One,

In the Twat and the Twaddle

Of the Lovegirl Marriage.

88th Chorus

“I wanted to marry a lovegirl,

A girl-only-interested-in-love girl,”

that would be the first sentence

of this masterpiece

Of golden litteratur –

Brap. All the crazy people

I’ve known since I was 4 years old

– 6 years old I saw the sun red

on windows of snowy centralville,

and wondered “Who am I?”

with truthful little eyes

turned to the skies of paradise –

no answer came.

I was the first crazy person

I’d known.

Had bundles and scarves a hundred miles

long

Wrapt in my heart of the library,

I had bottles and barts, & Xmas Trees,

and every thing known to man,

including 6 year old ache pains

in the Poxy back.

Was afraid of myself simply,

And afraid a everyone else.

89th Chorus

Remembering my birth in infancy, the coughs,

The swallows, the tear-trees growing

From your eyeballs of shame; the grey

Immense morning I was conceived i the womb,

And the red gory afternoon delivered

therefrom.

Wow. I could sing you hounds

make you bell howl packs,

Zounds, I’d-a lived & lived laughing

as a child

If somebody coulda told me

it was unreal:

I was scared. The dark

was full of phantoms

Come from the other side of death

to claim the hearts

Of Sacrificial little children

laying up in the winter night

In cribs by howling windows

of the cold & forlorn

Earth of Massachussetts February,

Massachussetts March,

Wild howl Lupine Cold the Moony

and Loony nights.

90th Chorus

I thought I was a phantom,

me, myself,

Suffering. One night I saw

my older brother Gerard

Standing over my crib with wild

hair, as if he had just

pee-visited the pail

in the hall of snores

and headed back for his room

was investigatin the Grail,

Nin & Ma’s bedroom,

Who slept in the same bed

and in the crib alongside.

Oily is the moment so

that phantom was my brother

only in the sense that cotton

is soft,

Only in the sense that

when you die

you muffle

in your sigh

the thorny hard

regret of rocks

of life-belief.

I knew, I hoped, to go be saved.

91st Chorus

If that phantom was real

And wanted to hurt me, then,

All I had to do was suffer & die,

Gritting my teeth awhile

Till it’s all over.

If the phantom was unreal

And was only a friendly shade

Standing commiserating compassionately

At my side as I slept and sighed

In the Shakespearean night,

Perhaps, may be, it was my brother.

And my brother didnt seek to hurt me.

If he did, I crashed,

I saw stars, marvels,

My miracle hullabaloo

Balloon Rainbow

Turned out to be “Bone

the Brother-Crash”–

You get socked on the jaw

By your best friend –

You keep thinking

It’s going to happen

And it never happens,

Pow!

92nd Chorus

It was all right,

And I was the strangest creature

of them all.

At Xmas they brought me a toy house

in and out of which

Caroline my sister

played little valentine

armies showing little sad

people of the prime

pip Vienna smalltoot

towns, with orchestras

of the square,

and in the brown light

of the kitchen I wondered

“What is this? – mystery of little people.

Is each one a frightening as me?

Is each one afraid as me?

Is each one got to sleep

in the dark at night?

Did any of them lil cardboard soldiers

See the Sun of Sadness at Six

In the windows of their snow slope?”

93rd Chorus

But I knew they hadnt.

They hadnt thought such thoughts.

No – I knew.

I knew I knew I knew.

It was like the Lankavatara

Scripture

I got to read 30 years later,

It said: “These little cardboard

Houses and people, may be real,

Considered as real, if you steal

Little reel from the wheel

Every neel till the eel

In the skeel keep the weal

Of all men intact in city

halls

Of poop hope.

In other words, son,

hang on – dont tip,

lose balance, see reality

in images like cardboard

– nor in the brown light

of this very kitchen.”

I pouted in my childhood.

94th Chorus

But now I will describe

The crazy people I’ve known.

These things.

My mother would take us

To a three story tenement

on Lakeview Avenue, still

standing there – washlines

of Araby hung from ropes

on the brown porch –

spend all day in there

talkin & gossipin –

lockin and rossipin

and plopperin and

dopperin and sopperin –

– it’s easy to go crazy

I go crazy sometimes.

Can’t get on with my story,

write it in verse.

Worse

Aint go no story, just verse

It was a crazy place to take us, I mean

95th Chorus

It was where I learned to say “door”

Meanwhile a thousand things

Were happening in the Maldoror wood

Of our neighborhood, Beaulieu Street

Up ahead, with rats of rat winery

And pestils and poolsharks

And pests of tenement crooners,

Looners – the dreary population

Of the world in 1924.

Two years old, I sat on the sidewalk

Contemplating time in white sand,

That was up on Burnaby Street.

Names of Silly Streets.

We have a meet to keep.

“Simplificus? Ridiculous?

Immensicus? Marvailovous!”

The wild a thousand and one thousand

things

To do & be done

when you’re a kiddy

of two or four

in the bright ball

inside your mind

of heaven given

joy.

96th Chorus

I tumbled down the street

On a tricycle, very fast,

I coulda kept going

And wound up in the river,

– Or across the trolley tracks

And got cobble mashed

And all smashed so that later on

I cant have grit dreams

Of Lakeview Avenue,

And see my father die,

Had I died at two –

But I saw my father die,

I saw my brother die,

I saw my mother die

my mother my mother my mother

inside me –

Saw the pear trees die,

the grapes, pearls, penny trees –

Saw little white collar girl

with little black dress

And spots of rose on each cheek,

die, in her glasses

In a coffin.

But I raced my bicycle safely.

97th Chorus

Meanwhile there’s my Pa, alone in street,

Coming for supper, under heaven bleak

The trees of March black twigs

Against the red & gory sundown

That blazed across the River

sinking in the ocean to the East

beyond Salisbury’s latest & last

grain of sand,

Then all’s wet underneath, to Eclipse

(Ivan the Heaven Sea-Ice King, Euclid,

Bloody Be Jupiter, Nucleus,

Nuclid, What’s-His-Name – the sea

The sea-drang Scholar with mermaids,

Bloody blasted dadflap thorn it

– Neppy Tune–)

All’s wet clear to Neptune’s Seat.

Sensing the aura, the news

Of that frost, my father

Hurries in his Woe-Street

Conscious he is a man

Doomed to mortal destiny.

“And my poor lil Ti Pousse,”

he thinks of me,

“He’ll get it too.”

98th Chorus

My father loves me,

my mother too,

I am all safe,

and so are you.

My father adores me

thinks I am cute

hates to see me

flash sheroot

Or bespatter bedspreads

with mule of infant

woodsy odors –

blash aroot

My old man’s only 28 years old

And is a young insurance salesman

And is confidently clacking down the street

And chuckling to think of the boys

And the poker game and gnaws

His fingernails worried about how fat

He’s getting, “no coal bill’s been

Highern this 1924 coalbill

I got to watch my dollars

Pretty soon the poorhouse” –

(“Wish I was God,” he adds to think)

99th Chorus

My father, Leo Alcide Kérouac

Comes in the door of the porch

On the way out to downtown red,

(where Neons Redly-Brownly Flash

An aura over the city center

As seen from the river where we lived)

– “Prap – prohock!” he’s coughing,

Busy, “Am,” bursting to part

the seams of his trousers with power

of assembled intentions.

“B-rrack – Brap?”

(as years later GJ would imitate him,

“your father, Zagg, he goes along,

Bre-hack! Brop?” Raising

his leg, bursting his face

to rouge outpop huge mad eyes

of “big burper balloons

of the huge world”)

To see if there’s any mail in the box

My father shoots 2 quick glances

Into all hearts of the box,

No mail, you see the flash of his anxious

Head looking in the void for nothing.

100th Chorus

That’s the porch of the Lupine house.

Afternoons I sleep upstairs,

In the sun, on the porch, in October,

I remember the dry leaves

in the blue sky.

I remember one day being parked in the

wickerbasket

Baby carriage, under huge old tree,

In family photos we’ve preserved it,

A great elm rising from dust

Of the little uphill road –

By dry hedges on a late afternoon

In November in the North, sun warm

But air cold, I am wrapt

And beswallered in sweet ebony

With wraps and puffcream caps

And chinkly pinkly pink baby,

Gleering at the world with little

wet lips,

Glad, Ah John,

– that tree is still standing

but the road has moved over.

Such is the might of the baby

in the seat

He hugens to re-double

the image, in words.

101st Chorus

We strove to go to movies

And re discover the happiness

of the baby –

We built up towers of prayer

in ivory and stone –

Roused denizens from their proper

rat-warrens –

“Simplificus the baby,

what hast thou thought,

should he be serried

and should we be clobber

the agent of the giant

in the picture?

or let him guess?

I say, let’s

let him guess.

Then he’ll come crying

& sneaking thru the tent

looking for the showing

of proud discontent,

the circus of mirkus,

pile it on thick,

– befriend –

it’s a show to go to movies

but a blow the baby be”

102nd Chorus

“See to it that he never ends,”

they might have added anyhow.

One never dies,

One’s never born

So sing the optimists

Of holy old religion,

trying to assuage –

Your shoes may look nice,

your baby buggies neater,

but one dies,

one’s born.

What the Tathagata of Buddhism

preaches,

The Prophet of Buddhahood

is that

nothing

is really

born nor dies

But that Ignorance is its Prince,

The essence never moved

From folded magnificence.

103rd Chorus

My father in downtown red

Walked around like a shadow

Of ink black, with hat, nodding,

In the immemorial lights of my dreams.

For I have since dreamt of Lowell

And the image of my father,

Straw hat, newspaper in pocket,

Liquor on the breath, barber shopshines,

Is the image of Ignorant Man

Hurrying to his destiny which is Death

Even though he knows it.

’S why they call Cheer,

a bottle, a glass, a drink,

A Cup of Courage –

Men know the mist is not their friend –

They come out of fields & put coats on

And become businessmen & die stale

The same loathsome stale death

They mighta died in countryside

Hills of dung.

My remembrance of my father

in downtown Lowell

walking like cardboard cut

across the lost lights

is the same empty material

as my father in the grave.

104th Chorus

I’d rather be thin than famous,

I dont wanta be fat,

And a woman throws me outa bed

Callin me Gordo, & everytime

I bend

to pickup

my suspenders

from the davenport

floor I explode

loud huge grunt-o

and disgust

every one

in the familio

I’d rather be thin than famous

But I’m fat

Paste that in yr. Broadway Show

105th Chorus

Essence is like absence of reality,

Just like absence of non-reality

Is the same essence anyhow.

Essence is what sunlight is

At the same time that moonlight is,

Both have light, both have shape,

Both have darkness, both are late:

Both are late because empty thereof,

Empty is light, empty is dark,

what’s difference between emptiness

of brightness and dark?

What’s the difference between absence

Of reality, joy, or meaning

In middle of bubble, as being same

As middle of man, non-bubble

Man is the same as man,

The same as no-man, the same

As Anyman, Everyman, Asiman,

(asinine man)

Man is nowhere till he knows,

The essence of emptiness

is essence of gold

106th Chorus

Man is nowhere anyway

Because nowhere is here

And I am here, to testify.

Nowhere is

what nowhere was

I know nowhere

More anywhere

Than this here

Particular everywhere

When I fell thru the eye of the needle

And became a tumbling torso

In the Univers-O,

Brother, let me

tell you,

I thought

I was moving

from somewhere

to everywhere

but nothing moved

so I musta been

and still be

(must) no

where be

But that’s all up to the Saints

I aint gonna say the Saints of Innisfree

107th Chorus

Light is Late

yes

because

it happens after you realize it

You dont see light

Until sensation of seeing light

Is registered in Perception.

Perception notifies Discrimination,

etc., Consciousness

Until then there was no light

So light is late

Darkness is late

You dont conceive of darkness

Till you’ve been late with light

When you learned difference

Between equal poles abright

with Arbitrary ideas

About somethin bein this

Or that, abiding in this abode,

Denying in that abode –

Equal, positive, electric shock,

coil, dacoit, tower,

oil – it’s all late

108th Chorus

Neither this nor that

means,

no arbitrary conceptions,

because if you say

arbitrarily, the RAMMIS

is the RAMMIS, ! –

and the TSORIS is the TSORIS,

or the FLORIST,

or the –

arbitrary conceptions

have sprung into existence

that didnt have to be there

in the first place

when your eyes were bright

with seeing emptiness

in the void of holy sea

where creatures didnt

abound, nor crops grow,

and nothing happened,

and nobody lived,

and nobody cared –

You didnt need

arbitrary concepts there

and need them now

you say you need them now

I say, you say,

Why should you need them now

Why should you now

109th Chorus

“Was it a bright afternoon,

bright with seeing?”

Asks the literary type

sitting in a chair

In an afternoon’s dream

And you see his buddy comin in,

Holding his coat to the hook

After closing the door,

You see it on a Thurber Cartoon,

In New Yorker, the funny

Fat figures V-cut and Z-cut

In squares, spilling cartons

of spaghetti to their orb ball

OON LINE ANOON

POP CLOUD - WORD - HOLE

And people thumb thru

Reg’ally

And up comes the laugh, the yok,

Funny Thurber

Cartoon there,

“Was it a bright afternoon,

bright with seeing?”

looking over his newspaper

or poetry pad

110th Chorus

I know how to withstand poison

And sickness known to man,

In this void. I’m no apprentice

When it comes to remembering

The eternity of suffering

Quietly I’ve been through,

Without complaint, sensing inside

Pain the gloriful um mystery.

Afternoons as a kid I’d listen

to radio programs for to see

the scratch between announcements,

Knowing the invalid is glad

only because he’s mad

enough to appreciate every

little thing that blazons there

in the swarmstorm of his eye

Transcendental Inner Mind

where glorious radiant Howdahs

are being carried by elephants

through groves of flowing milk

past paradises of waterfall

into the valley of bright gems

be rubying an antique ocean

floor of undiscovered splendor

in the heart of unhappiness

111th Chorus

I didnt attain nothin

When I attained Highest

Perfect

Wisdom

Known in Sanskrit as

Anuttara Samyak Sambodhi

I attained absolutely nothing,

Nothing came over me,

nothing was realizable –

In dropping all false conceptions

of anything at all

I even dropped my conception

of highest old wisdom

And turned to the world,

a Buddha inside,

And said nothing.

People asked me questions

about tomatos robbing the vine

and rotting on the vine

and I had no idea

what I was thinking about

and abided

in blank ecstasy

112th Chorus

Dont sound reasonable,

dont sound possible,

when you bring it up

But if you dont bring it up,

everything is alright.

Dont believe Mr. Believe Me?

Dont think about him

and boy

you’ll see how he vanishes

in morning’s mist

when the moon

is a crescent a banana

and birds jump

and far over the Atlantic

where Red Amida is Shining

you’ll hear the Call Trumpet

of East is Alright with the West

In the Orb of the Womb

of Tathagata

so round

so empty

so unbelievably

false-lyingly

empty of persimonny

113th Chorus

Got up and dressed up

and went out & got laid

Then died and got buried

in a coffin in the grave,

Man –

Yet everything is perfect,

Because it is empty,

Because it is perfect

with emptiness,

Because it’s not even happening.

Everything

Is Ignorant of its own emptiness –

Anger

Doesnt like to be reminded of fits –

You start with the Teaching

Inscrutable of the Diamond

And end with it, your goal

is your startingplace,

No race was run, no walk

of prophetic toenails

Across Arabies of hot

meaning – you just

numbly dont get there

114th Chorus

Everything is perfect, dear friend.

When you wrote the letter

I was writing you one,

I checked on the dates,

Just about right, and One.

You dont have to worry

about colics & fits

From me any more

or evermore either

You dont have to worry bout death.

Everything you do, is like your hero

The Sweetest angelic tenor of man

Wailing sweet bop

On a front afternoon

When not leading the band

And every note plaintive,

Every note Call for Loss

of our Love and Mastery –

just so, eternalized –

You are a great man

I’ve gone inside myself

And there to find you

And little ants too

115th Chorus

LANGUID JUNKEY SPEECH WITH LIDDED EYES

So bleakly junk hit me never.

Must be something wrong with the day.

“How you feel?” – “Um – Ow” –

Green is the wainscot, wait

For the vaquero, 1, 2, 3 –

all the faces of man

are torting on one

neck

Lousy feeling of never-get-high,

I could swallow a bomb

And sit there a-sighing,

T’s a Baudelairean day,

Nothing goes right – millions

Of dollars of letters from home

And the feeling of being,

Ordinary, sane, sight –

Arm muscles are tense

Nothing ever right

You cant feel right

Hung in Partiality

For to feel the unconditional

No-term ecstasy

Where, of nothing,

I mean, of nothing,

That would be best

116th Chorus

The Jews Wrote American Music

Niki Niki Niki- la

Che wa miena

Pee tee Wah

Song of Lil Mexico Children

Kitchi Kitchi

Kitchy val

Big fat mustachio’d businessmen

Have just to finish their commercial

And go home, saw em at five

Drinking beer at Bar’s Alive

While old Canuck Pot

Looked white & cold

In corner, countin candles

Music

It’s an Aztec Radio

with the sounds thick & guttural

kicking out of the teeth

The Great Jazz Singer

was Jolson the Vaudeville Singer?

No, and not Miles, me.

117th Chorus

Me, Paraclete, you. Ye –

Me, Paraclete, Thee –

Thou Maitreya Love of the Future

– Me.

Me Santiveda me, saint,

Me sinner me – Me baptist

A-traptist of Lower

Absafactus

Me – You

Me, alone in understandin old

void of I love you,

feel fine

Me, you gotta love yourself,

love, somethin,

thass all I can say

The witchcraft Indiana girls

that didnt sing with their hearts,

where never in a better

shock of hay hocks

than the oldtime

singer with dusty feet

that chased death

comes and enfolds you

118th Chorus

It’s all the same to me.

The radio I dont wanta hear

And cant have to hear

Plays one thing and another

Of great Sarah Vag

but no I stop

and grasp

and I forget

that it’s my own fault

See how you do it?

And having grasped

go on singing

because I wouldnt

be writing these poems

if I didnt know

That I grasp I sing

I’ve had times of no-singing,

they were the same

Music is noise, Poetry dirt

119th Chorus

Self be your lantern,

Self be your guide –

Thus Spake Tathagata

Warning of radios

That would come

Some day

And make people

Listen to automatic

Words of others

and the general flash of noises,

forgetting self, not-self –

Forgetting the secret …

Up on high in the mountains so high

the high magic priests are

swabbing in the deck

of broken rib torsos

cracked in the rack

of

Kallaquack

tryin to figure yr way

outa the calamity of dust and

eternity, buz, you better

get on back to your kind

boat

120th Chorus

Junkies that get too high

Shoot up their old stock of stuff

And sit stupidly on edge

Of bed nodding over

The single sentence in the paper

They been staring at all night –

Six, seven hours they’ll do this,

Or get hungup on paragraphs:

“You go on the nod,

Then you come up,

Then you start readin

it again

Then you go on the nod again

and everytime you read it

it gets better”

You dont remember the next

rebirth

but you remember

the experience

“Took me all evening to read

3 or 4 pages, ossified,

on the nod”

121st Chorus

Everything is in the same moment

It doesnt matter how much money you have

It’s happening feebly now,

the works

I can taste the uneaten food

I’ll find

In the next city

in this dream

I can feel the iron railroads

like marshmallow

I cant tell the difference

between mental and real

It’s all happening

It wont end

It’ll be good

The money that was to have been spent

on the backward nations

of the world, has already been

spent in Forward Time

Forward to the Sea,

and the Sea Comes back to you

and there’s no escaping

when you’re a fish

the nets of summer destiny

122nd Chorus

We cannot break

Something that doesnt exist

Derange pas ta tendresse,

Dont break your tenderness

Is advice that comes to “me”

What a poem the knowledge

that Time

With its Pasts & Presents

& Appurtenant

Futures, is One Thing

THE THING ONE WHOLE MASS

Getting dimmer and dimmer

to the feel

What glorious repose knowing

What a Golden Age

of Silent Darkness

in my Happy Heart

as I lay contemplating

the fact that I shall die

anyhow regardless of race

regardless of grace

123rd Chorus

The essence is realizable in words

That fade as they approach.

What’s to be done Bodhisattva?

O live quietly; live to love

Everybody.

Be devout under trees

At midnight on the ground.

No hope in a room

of dispelling the gloom

that’s assembled

Since Moses

Life is the same as death

But the soul continues

In the same blinding light.

Eating is the same as Not Eating

But the stomach continues,

The thinking goes on.

You’ve got to stop thinking,

stop breathing.

How can you travel from Muzzy

to

Muzzy?

Forgive everyone for yr own sins

And be sure to tell them

You love them which you do

124th Chorus

The tall thin rawboned fellow

Come up to Paw and me

On the misty racetrack.

“Got a good one in the fourth.”

“How do YOU know”

says my Dad

“I’m a jockey”

His hat waved over his eyes

In the rain.

I saw Arkansaw

behind him.

He looked too big to be a jockey

to me –

“Just put 4 dollars to win

And give me half

the winnings.”

I dont remember now

whether my father fell

And got laid by that line,

But “too big

man

he too big

to be a jockey”

was my thought

125th Chorus

He shoulda been a football coach,

Joe McCarthy – the guy

that was a turncoat

at the assistant editor

of the Daily Worker?

– the tenement marble

sculptured Attican column

in the moonlight illuminating

my eyes – the ross

osh dewey bilbo long

scatter de crash talk

of Fascist BWAS!

-CLAP TRAP

the machinegunners of Goa

are in the Street mashing

the Saints of McCarthy

Cohn Captus & Company

and all I gotta say is,

remove my name

from the list

And Buddha’s too

Buddha’s me, in the list,

no-name.

126th Chorus

Like running a stick thru water

The use and effect

Of tellin people that

their house

is burning,

And that the Buddha, an old

And wise father

Will save them by holy

subterfuge,

Crying: “Out, out, little ones,

The fire will burn you!

I promise to give you fine

carts

Three in number, different,

Charming, the goat cart,

The deer cart, and

The cart of the bullock

Gayly bedecked – With oranges,

Flowers, holy maidens & trees,”

So the children rush out, saved,

And he gives them

The incomparable single Greatcart

Of the White Bullock, all snow.

127th Chorus

Nobody knows the other side

of my house,

My corner where I was born,

dusty guitars

Of my tired little street where

with little feet

I beetled and I wheedled

with my sisters

And waited for afternoon sunfall

call a kids

And ma’s to bring me back

to supper mainline

Hum washing line tortillas

and beans,

That Honey Pure land,

of Mominu,

Where I lived a myriad

kotis of millions

Of incalculable

be-aeons ago

When white while joyous

was also

Center of lake of light

128th Chorus

How solid our ignorance –

how empty our substance

and the conscience

keeps bleeding

and decay is slow –

children grow.

The toothbone goes

Out of mushy pulp

And you cry

As if rocks

Had been dumped

From a truck

On your back

And whimper,

saying

‘O Lord,

Mercy on Mission.’

129th Chorus

We’ve all been sent

On a mission

To conquer the desert

So that the Shrouded

Traveller

Behind us

Makes tracks in the dust

that dont exist,

He’ll, or We’ll,

All end in Hell

All end in Heaven

For sure –

Unless my guess is wrong,

We are all in for it

And our time

Is Life,

The Penalty,

Death.

The Reward

To the Victor

Then Goes.

The Victor is Not Self

130th Chorus

And the Victor is Not Pride

And the Victor is not.

Thus Spake Tathagata

But I get tired

Of waiting in pain

In a situation

Where I aint sure.

Where I am not sure

Where I am Wolfe

Sorrow

Whitman Free

Melville dark

Mark Twain Mark

Twain

where I am

wild

Where I am Mild

131st Chorus

Where I aim

And do not Miss

Dawdlers.

Alla them are dawdlers.

Poets.

Call themselves poets

Call themselves Kings

Call themselves Free

Calls themself

Hennis free

Calls themself

Calls themself

Calls themself catshit

Calls themself mean

Calls themself me

132nd Chorus

Innumeral infinite songs.

Great suffering of the atomic

in verse

Which may or not be

controlled

By a consciousness

Of which you & the

ripples of the waves

are a part.

That’s Buddhism.

That’s Universal Mind

Pan Cosmodicy

Einstein believed

In the God of Spinoza

(– Two Jews

– Two Frenchmen)

133rd Chorus

“Einstein probably put a lot

of people in the bughouse by

saying that

All those pseudo intellectuals

went home & read Spinoza

then they dig in

to the subtleties

of Pantheism –

After 10 years of research

they wrap it up

& sit down on a bench

& decide to forget

all about it.

Because Pantheism’s

Too Much for Em.

They wind up trying to

find out Plato, Aristotle,

they end up in a

vicious Morphine circle”

134th Chorus

“The only cure for

morphine poisoning

Is more morphine.”

This is the real morphine.

Now it’s after supper

And the little kids

Are out on the street

Yelling “Mo perro,

Mo perro, mo perro”

And the sky is purple

In old hazish Mexico

of Hashisch, Shaslik

And Veal Parmezan.

Russian Spy Buses

Tooting

“Salud”

135th Chorus

The ants are gone asleep

By now, out on those plains

Of pulque and rice

Beyond Pascual

And the Cactus Town

Matador pan

Pazatza cuaro

Mix-technique

Poop

Indio

Yo yo catlepol

Moon Yowl

Indian

Town & City

Vendors of Take a Giant Step

Say Hailé

In back se malleys

Selling drunks

136th Chorus

I always did say

Aunt Semonila

The Amapola Champeen

Of Yon Yucatan

will never find

her potatoes

Till she sticks in her hands

Potatoes of paternity

Grow deep,

Edie.

Nut went Crazy

Fife Faces of Man

In One Cell

Ow are you?

Fall.

137th Chorus

AZTEC BLUES

“A kek Horrac”

I hear in the Aztec Night

Of Mystery

Where the Plateau Moon

With Moon Citlapol

Over the dobe roofs

Of Heroé Mexico.

“Screeaa-ra- sarat”

The Scraping of Chair,

Followed by Toot & Boom.

Punk! says Iron Pot Lid.

Tup! says finger toilet.

Tuck! says dime on Ice.

Ferwutl says Beard Bird.

Howl of Moondogs in Monterrey

When dry is Riverbottom

Baseball Rock

Nothing nada like this scene

Of Apish majesty

In April’s hide of hair

138th Chorus

It’s really a Brooklyn Night

the Aztec Night

the Mix Toltec Night

the Saragossa Night

the Tarasco Night

Jaqui Keracky

Grow Opium

In Ole Culiacan

(BLANK, the singer

sings nothing)

139th Chorus

I said Well

Bad time of month for me –

So last I saw or heard a

him –

Matter of fact, he even –

But he never hardly

gave me the 10 pesos

So I was figuring it was

worthwhile to keep

the bum outa my hair,

ten pesos

Only one guy I ever known

He always paid me back

Angel Gabriel

Bright on High

140th Chorus

Fifty pesos

3 Cheers Forever

It’s beautiful to be comfortable

Nirvana here I am

When I was born Tathagatas

Assembled from all universes

And chanted in my ear

The gray song of Nirvana

Saying “Dont Come Back”

Then my Angel Gerard

Protected & comforted me

In the Rainy Misery

And my mother smiled

And my father was dark

And my sister

And I sat on the floor

And I Void Listened

To the Eternal Return

With no Expression

141st Chorus

Zoom

S  t  a  r

o  f  H  o  l  y

I   n   d   i   a   n

N   I   G      H      T

The Tathata

of

Eminence

is

Silence

The Clear Sight

of Varied Crystal

Shining Mountains

shifting in the Air

Exploding Snow

is Transcendental

Brilliant Shattered

Hammered Smithy

Emerald Green

Rubioso Mostofo

Be spark snaked

142nd Chorus

Muck Ruby

Crystal Set

Smithereen

Holylilypad

Bean –

A la Pieté –

Truss in dental

Pop Oly Ruby

Tobby Tun w d 1

ixts87rer(

Gainesville Georgia – Sleeping in the

grass on a July night –

Dream of climbing night bank

behind the Joe Louis signatures

We die with same

unconcern we live

143rd Chorus

(pause)

Junkies

Should be practical nurses

And be given permits

To get 3 to 5 grains a day

Every day,

The older addicts need more.

Drug Addicts

Are human beings

Less dangerous

Than alcoholics

And alcoholics arent so bad

Look at the speed drivers

Look at the sex fiends

144th Chorus

Look at the sex fiends

Speeding thru their suicide!

Nembutols!

Guns & jumps in the river!

Lilly saved the man’s life!

Flying with legs

out the window

to crash the locomotive

at the X Crossing

X!

I been in crashes,

I been in many a bad night,

I been in Nova Scotia

Investigating the Blight.

And Bright the Vast

Atlantic Greenland

Mountain cap

Of Old Atombomb

Atlantis

145th Chorus

A BANG OF M

A razor mountain –

An Empire State Building

needle Hypo –

A boiling cauldron

cucharra –

A sneeze, a wheeze –

A Cough

A cotton sucking –

A Bang of M

Anticommunism is an

arbitrary distinction

Depending on Communism

A shoot-in

Pull out needle

James Huneker

Alfred Knopf

H L Mencken

Edgar Lee Masters

146th Chorus

The Big Engines

In the night –

The Diesel on the Pass,

The Airplane in the Pan

American night –

Night –

The Blazing Silence in the Night,

the Pan Canadian Night –

The Eagle on the Pass,

the Wire on the Rail,

the High Hot Iron

of my heart.

The blazing chickaball

Whap-by

Extry special Super

High Job

Ole 169 be

floundering

Down to Kill Roy

147th Chorus

The Sock

Wock Williby

Balloons

In the shitfence

The Angels

in Heaven

I knew

The Angel in Heaven

Gabriel Toot Boy

Horn n All

Blows Awful

Blues When

Toy Doy

Done Bo Moy

From China mo Moy

To Ole Penoy,

Oy–y–

Y gerta

was gordo

148th Chorus

Instrucciones

Precaucion

Whichever way you look

you’re looking East

Same with West

Whichever etc. way you look,

you’re looking West

Thus Spake Tathagata

In the Eastern Heavens I knew

Blue Auroras of the new

Most of David ever knew

Find the Bible Desert,

Rock,

Ti Jean Picotée

Silence

Bzzzzz

the razor in-cut

of void meat

149th Chorus

I keep falling in love

with my mother,

I dont want to hurt her

– Of all people to hurt.

Every time I see her

she’s grown older

But her uniform always

amazes me

For its Dutch simplicity

And the Doll she is,

The doll-like way

she stands

Bowlegged in my dreams,

Waiting to serve me.

And I am only an Apache

Smoking Hashi

In old Cabashy

By the Lamp

150th Chorus

Appeasement is Hypnotism

When the Houri Indian

snakecharmer gets under way

swaying his crock toilet

picoloette clarinoot

at the snake’s bony

leer

he is leading a band

like Sammy Kaye

that could erupt

and kill him

The Weasels Wait

If Buddha appeased

the Likhavi Tribesmen

It means he must have hypnotized

and pleased

Their appeasable hearts

with talk

Of Grand Nirvana’s

Holy Paradise

151st Chorus

STILL LIFE

A candle dripped all its

gysm

To the bottom of a strawberry

designed

Mexican Beer tray –

A single edge razorblade,

Partially underneath

The blade of a butter knife

Abstracted from old

camp

packs –

And a tin cup.

This is the Matisse Story

Of a simple arrangement

Of natural objects

In a room on a Sunday

Afternoon –

bits of dry dust,

black ashes

152nd Chorus

The edge of the tray

is bright red –

The strawberries are crimson

dull painted

juicy dimensional

indefinable silver lights

on the knife & blade

brass dark death

and the tragic gloom

inside the lull

of the tumbled wax

Attican and Shapely

The rim sadness aluminum

ALCO Shipwave

cup –

Then, in real life not

still life – comes

the filthy dry gray

ash tray of butts

and matchlet tips

153rd Chorus

Sir Garver is cleaning

His Attic and Castle,

Sniffing & snappin

The Bardic Be

Garters –

Wearing the huge shroud

sorcerer’s head

Picking up deadbeats

Offa his bed.

Tucking the sheets in

of no consequence;

Turning and struggling

to kneel to a stand

Off the bed of dimensions

& middles

And spans,

that wont let him lie

straight

In the South American

Pan

154th Chorus

Pan mattress, pan spang,

pan bang,

Perdoneme, pardon

me.

He’s got a rich cover

Lines made of wine

To cover his bed with

And pull in the line

And unties his bow strings

Of bathrobe & gore,

His plue pajamas

Poaping

around all that

gore

His feet clean & shiny

Like askin for more

155th Chorus

And as he keeps washing

& blowing his poor nose

And waiting for death

to make V-repose

Out of hands he now rubs with

the towel of More.

Coffee cup’s a-covered

Friend does the Sneeze

Death’ll overcome him

in Some Fleece of Sleep

Nirvana is Snowing

Right down on his head

Everything’s all right

In Heaven in High

Inside this blue bottle

us flies rage & wait

But outside is the Rosy

of Purple O Gate

O J O

156th Chorus

I know we’re all straight

I knew from a tree

I leaned on a tree

And the tree told me

Tree told me Haby

The Maybe is Abey,

The Kapey is Correcty,

You’ll be allarighty

Trees dont talk good

No they don’t talk good

This tree just told me

See Eternity

Is the other side

Of the other part

Of your mind

That you ignore

Because you want to

157th Chorus

The Art of Kindness

Is a dream

That was foretold by prophets

Of Old, wd. be continuous

With no broken lines

Buddha after Buddha

Crashing in from Heavens

Farther than expressioning,

Bringing the Single Teaching:

Love Everywhere.

Bring on the single teaching,

It’s all indeed in Love;

Love not of Loved Object

Cause no object exists,

Love of Objectlessness,

When nothing exists

Save yourself and your not-self

Hung in a Moon

Of Perfect O Canopy

Sorrowing Starborrowing

Happiness Parade

158th Chorus

It wont happen is what

it is –

It’ll lose touch –

It was the same in past

eternities

It will be with the bees

now

the feeling of in and out

your feeling of being alive

is the feeling of in & out

your feeling of being dead

unalive

When it comes you wont

sneeze no more, Gesundheit.

It wont happen, is what

is –

And

it aint happenin now

Smile & think deeply

159th Chorus

Blook Bleak.

Bleak was Blook,

an Onionchaser Hen

necked Glutinous

Huge Food monster

that you ate

with FLAN & Syrup

in a sticky universe

Blook on the Mountaintop,

Bleak;

Blake by the Mountainside,

Baah! –

Boom went the Crasher

Mountain Heidi

Kerplunk Archagelan

Swiss Funnel

Top of Funny Ships

Singing & sinking

In a Glutinous Sea

(of Lese Majesty.)

160th Chorus

Poppa told me a perfect pome.

It’s simple

The smiles of hungry sexy

brunettes

Looking to lock you in

lock joint and all

And those eyes of Italian

deep scenery

In Riviera’s of Caviar

Tree

And Mulberry Bee

Lampshade

Sun Ahmenides

Ahmenemet!

Ak!

That’s your rosy

Figury,

another word

for future –

That’s your come itself

161st Chorus

It’s a starry disaster

Wobbling many times

Like Sick-to-my-Stomach

The All Slop of Brothers,

Every word that Pegler utters,

“So-pa-top-a-ta!”

Shout children on street –

(“Luz!” is her call name)

Horn of Sunday car, yar

Of yak-pass mufflerless

Cars – “You writing that down?

“Not necessarily in agreement

With general trend against

The labor movement” – but here’s

his takeoff on Eleanor

Roosevelt ‘This is My Day,’

It’s a funny statement –

Pegler took out My Day

And rolled into thought

Tortilla & puts it on one

article –

(con salsa –)

162nd Chorus

BILL’S DREAMS

Slim girls in thin kimonos

Of blue silk, thin gossamer,

Long, that you could see thru,

Lying down, half-sitting,

Smoking through long tubes

In which every once in a while

An attendant places drug,

In a central bowl,

And as they smoke on

An attendant sprinkles

their eyes with talcum

powder

And they flutter their eyes

To the joy of it.

Then, back in the Tombs,

He’s smoking in his cell

And the smoke became

Singing people fading

And coming with smoke

and a guy passing bread

Passes him up –

163rd Chorus

Left the Tombs to go

and look at the

Millions of cut glass –

– a guy clocking them,

as you look you swallow,

you get so fat

you can’t leave the building,

– stand straight,

dont tip over, breathe

in such a way yr fatness

deflates, go back to

the Tombs,

ride the elevator –

he tips over again,

gazes on the Lights,

eats them, is clocked,

gets so fat

he cant leave elevator,

has to stand straight

and breathe out the fat –

– hurry back to the Tombs

164th Chorus

Grand Central Station,

side entrance

where they unload produce

– He & friends get scraps

of meat & cabbage,

All starving,

on floor are iron plates

hot, not too hot,

They all start slowly

cooking, but keep moving up

as men with central

hotplate heat

get impatient & eat

meat half raw –

so he keeps pushing up

his little meat

towards the center –

These people are all bums –

Hang around in restaurants

Where there’s nothing to eat

And you sit a table

And suddenly there’s a guy

165th Chorus

under the table

cooking your leg

in some kind of steam

– much quicker job

with the steam on the leg

than central radiant

wildheat of cabbage

plates

in Grand C Station

And I see: “Everybody’s eatin you.

You eat them,

makes no difference,

the essence does not pass

From mouth to mouth

And craw to craw,

it’s ignorance does.

ignorant form.

the essence is not

disturbed

really,

Like the sudden thought

of India is a dream”

166th Chorus

A home for unmarried fathers.

He said I must investigate

some day, that –

Homefront married fathers,

– some whacky idea –

like a home for unmarried fathers

would be.

Pegler and the Cabinet

of Peligroso FDR

– Firstbase, Perkins;

Eleanor, Right field;

Pitching, Cervantes

the Cuban Newcomer

from downriver

Harlem

riding a white

horse riot

Picasso

in his helmet

Jesus

167th Chorus

The details are all the same,

Like honey stored in beehives,

Like atomic power, so many

Atoms, the details per

Square inch are the life of it

And the death of it

The critical mass collapses

And like a tumbled Sand castle

When the tide of disintegration

And its conception rise,

Flops into the sea softmaw

Sand salvaging, bells

Toll it not offshore.

The Castle was a Dream.

Now learn

that the water is a dream

For when the Tide of Disaster

Rises water will disintegrate

And all will be left

Is the Successful Savior

Abiding Everywhere in

Beginningless Ecstatic Nobody

168th Chorus

Asking questions and listening

is sincerity;

Asking questions and listening

without really listening

Is a kind of sincerity; but

Talking about yourself alia

time, is not insincere.

It’s all the same thing

In the long run, the short run

the no run

Whitman examinated grass

and concluded

It to be the genesis

& juice, of pretty girls.

“Hair of Graves,” footsteps

Of Lost Children,

Forgotten park meadows,

– Looking over your shoulder

At the beautiful maidens –

169th Chorus

Lie down

Rest

Breathe slowly

Dead in Time

You’re dead already

What’s a little bit more time got to do

with it

So you’re dead

So the Living Loathe the Dead,

themselves –

So forgive, reassure, pat, protect,

and purify them

Whatever way is best.

Thus Spake, Tathagata.

The girls are pretty

But their cherries are itty

And if they aint got cherries

Sleep in the Park anyway

And if you dont go near them

You dont get that sensation

Of their inexhaustible delicacy

Dead in Time – Rest in Time

170th Chorus

Rest in Delicacy

The far border of the puff lace

clouds of Amida’s Western

Heaven of Diamond Repose

is Delicate

And delicate is the Spanish

language, delicate the Spanish

they speak in Upper Bleak

where King Sariputra

holds forth a tablet of ice

(I mean diamonds)

to be read by the highest

most delicate Bodhi papa

in the whole confraternity

– Old Buddha of Old

In his Magic Selves

Commingled as One, Maitri,

Coos delicate songs

To the lyres & guitars

Of the minds of the Lapis

Lazuli old Saints

171st Chorus

When I hear that serenade

in blue –

Tell me darling are these things

the same

That we had always known

Well all alone

And true, it’s that serenade

O serenade,

In the blue, in the blue.

Oopli da da

Aow dee a dee e-da-ha

You never had no chance

Fate dealt you wrong hands

Romance never came back

Crashing interruptions

So I’m with you

happy once again

and singing all my blues

in tune with you

with you

172nd Chorus

When I hear that

serenade in bleu,

OO dee de ree,

– a song I could sing

in a low new voice

to be recorded

on quiet microphones

of the Roman Afternoon,

tape, a new kind of voice,

sung for the self

sung for yourself

to hear in a room

where you dont

want to be

interrupt

ed

Or made to sing dirges

Of suicide & main

in the candle of the handle

of the coffin to blame

173rd Chorus

The funerals of the doornails

Gay Chocolateers with sadness

of Marshes across

their Germany

Hope of Eleanoras of Russia

rising from

the railroad

Nevsky track

Loud upturned chocolate bedpans

of Saturday Night

Drugstore Windows

showing rubber

and the sexfiend

watching

Oldtime childhood shoesheens

The Music of the uninhabited spheres

being played & developed

over ages for no one

That’s the Radio to me

The Ultimo Actual Soundbody

discriminating in the air

by means of men tubes

invented by the 95 devils

174th Chorus

The freshwater eels of Europe

That climb up their rivers

And presumably raid fjords

And eat up pools, curious

Proustian visitors from up the

mountain

Of the sea, which, when they die,

they re-cross, to Bermuda,

from whence they came, to die.

Must be that these eel

Have a yen to explore

The veins of Old Atlantis

From their sunken mountaintop

This side Canaryas

But no – they slide

From Europe to Ukraine

And down the Belgian Rivers,

And blankly in the void

Swim back to spawn

And die with longfaced pouts

– Poor fish.

175th Chorus

Cunalingus

My sister’s playin piana in Vienna

The Jews are Genius Gypsies

The Moors are Poor.

Aristotle, Isabel,

Ferdinand the Bull.

Ferdinand was no Dumb-Bell –

Piano high was Vienna

When Freud interviewed

The oversexed Rothschilds

And Richjews of Vienna

And the Gypsies were camped

In apartments – with lamps –

All the wealth of Europe

had poured

Into Vienna – Freud was there –

So his Psychoanalysis Sex

Chart of Mad talk

Was accepted as Gospel

By undermined golfcourses

of the River West –

The multiple too-much of the world

176th Chorus

The reason why there are so many things

Is because the mind breaks it up,

The shapes are empty

That sprung into come

But the mind wont know this

Till a Buddha with golden

Lighted finger, hath pointed

To the thumb, & made an aphorism

In a robe on the street,

That you’ll know what it means

For there to be too many things

In a world of no-thing.

One no-thing

Equals

All things

When sad sick women

Sing their sex blues

In yr ear, have no fear

have no fear –

the moon is true, enough,

but, but, but, but, but,

it keeps adding up

177th Chorus

Farewell, tendril

I dont wanta play like that

when I find you

as a world

In my heart

I dont want

To talk it lightly

And make jokes

And find myself

Paranoically

Grunting loud huge grunt

Of Gordo Exer-

Indian-Cise,

I’d – O Christ –

wouldn’t want to be cool

in hot hell

and be goofing

when yr sweet attentions

all me, thee,

describe, self-descried

in one essential

l i g h t ,

the holy gold so-called

178th Chorus

Put the blame on intelligence –

the reason, no,

not the bloody reason,

the asskissed burned

Chicago Putdown

talk of time –

who was it maimed

the rescue,

and made – the mistake –

and held

the loft

and lost

and got lost

and knew nothing –

What knew the blame?

Who put the blame?

Who’s trying to throw me

out?

Who am I?

do I exist?

(I don’t even exist anyhow)

179th Chorus

Glenn Miller and I were heroes

When it was discovered

That I was the most beautiful

Boy of my generation,

They told Glenn Miller,

Whereby he got inspired

And wrote the saxophone

Wrote the reed sections –

like sautergain & finn –

and then they all did dance

and kissed me mooning stars

and I became the Yokum

of the wall-gang, flowers,

and believed in truth & loved

the snowy earth

and had no truck

and no responsibility

a bhikku in my heart

waiting for philosophy’s

dreadful murderer

BUDDHA

180th Chorus

When you work on that railroad

You gotta know what old boy’s

sayin

In that en-gyne,

When you head brakie

just showin up for work

on a cold mist dusk

ready to roll

to on down the line

lettuce fields

of Elkhorn

& sea-marshes

of the hobo highriding

night, flash Salinas –

“Somebody asked me where

I come from

I tell them it’s none a their

business,

Cincinnatta”–

Poetry just doesnt get there

181st Chorus

The girls go for that long red

tongue,

From the pimp with the long red

car,

They lay it in his hand

The profits’ curfew

He takes it “The Yellow Kid”

– He’s the Man –

She goes home and hustles,

Remembering Caroline,

The hills when little

The raw logcabin

rotting in the piney woods

where the mule was mush

and pup-dog howled

for no owner

all one owl-hoot night

and watermelon flies

on the porch

But she love that long red tongue

And the Man

is a Sucker

“SOMEONE LOWER THAN SHE IS”

182nd Chorus

The Essence of Existence

is Buddhahood –

As a Buddha

you know

that all the sounds

that wave from a tree

and the sights

from a sea of fairies

in Isles of Blest

and all the tastes

in Nectar Soup

and all the odors

in rose arbour

– ah rose, July rose –

bee-dead rose –

and all the feelings

in the titwillow’s

chuckling throat

and all the thoughts

in the raggedy mop

of the brain –

one dinner

183rd Chorus

“Only awake to Universal Mind

And realize that there is nothing

Whatever to be attained. This

Is the real Buddha.”

Thus spake Hsi Yun

to P’ei Hsiu

Names so much like each other

You know it cant be wrong

You know that sweet Hsi Yun

Had eyes to see the Karma

Wobbling in the balloon

– shiney –

millions of dollars damage

from rains and floods –

vast fading centers of a Kansas

central standard time

buss-i-ness

my fron

Only awake to Universal Mind,

accept everything,

see everything,

it is empty,

Accept as thus – the Truth.

184th Chorus

“Men are afraid to forget

their own minds,

Fearing to fall thru the void

With nothing to which they can cling.

They do not know

that the void

is not really void

but the real realm

of the Dharma”–

Wow, I thought reading that,

when I start falling

in that inhuman pit

of dizzy death

I’ll know (if

smart enough t’remember)

that all the black

tunnels of hate

or love I’m falling

through, are

really radiant

right eternities

for me

185th Chorus

Farewell, pistil –

“as old as space”

“without the faintest tendency

towards rebirth”

No-self, no-self, no-self,

Dass iss the order of the day,

Virya, Zeal, Wednesday,

When I can turn this old

patayo Matago dun’s

nest of hornet toad

shoot bewallopers

worrying in Finnegan’s

Whorehouse about nothing,

into a Pagoda of Bright

Jesus Lace Snow

Japana dreams,

with showers of aura

arras flower rose

bepetalling pet by pet

from the holy dispenser

of dogs –

Farewell, puppy

186th Chorus

It’s all happening in snow

But I shudder.

Now there’s no reason for that.

Now argue the sky saints.

And down below, I mourn

and low like an old cow

in a rastro slaughterhouse

in the I-Dont-Know

district of Hellavides’

Devil Dang –

No, hmf, damn, boy,

boom – hell’s clutters

that meated dante

when he virgilized

his poign –

bom –

om, atva,

svaha, snatva,

Holy Old Howl Who’ll

Ya

Is Okay

187th Chorus

Do not Seek,

and Eliminate nothing,

concluded the Chinese

Master of 840 B.C.

“Observe the Void which lies

before your eyes

How can you set about

eliminating it?”

Buddhism is a big bomb on the head

and it hurts

After which comes I know

the milky fliss,

fluff, soft AW eternities,

skyrockets,

snowflakes, hope revealed,

snow

Gerard, Pa, lamb,

Sax,

Heaven, you, me.

188th Chorus

And tonight I’ll pray

And O I’ll call Fugen

and Kwannon to my aid

and ask them to let me

hear their transcendental

silence sound,

learning

thereby

Fugen

Avaloki-

tesvara’an

mostafokas

fakirs, makers,

sing sound silence

of my sound

O bless me, make me safe,

say, ‘No-Yo’ but save

‘Me no?’ save

No-me – I beseech

save no-me

189th Chorus

Petronic, Satiricon –

The Black Mass is the Christian

Devil Mass

“A guy in there

gives a supper

and has his funeral oration

spoken, & coffin bared

in which he is to lie,

all dishes are black,

all food black & white

(that which can be)

– they have world-food

at this banquet of death,

the wealthy man celebrant

says he’ll die early

and violently”

and Does he?

Petronius Arbitum –

elegant queer,

my dear

190th Chorus

What I have attained in Buddhism

is nothing.

What I wish to attain,

is nothing.

Let me explain.

In perceiving the Dharma

I achieved nothing –

What worries me is not

nothing

But everything, the trouble is

number,

But since everything is nothing

then I am worried nil.

In seeking to attain the Dharma

I failed, attaining nothing,

And so I succeeded the goal,

Which was, pure happy

nothing.

No matter how you cut it

it’s empty delightful boloney

191st Chorus

My startingplace and my goal

are right here in this simple

space hole

Sings Shinran:–

“All that have obstructions

Are not impeded

By the Clouds of Light.”

It is like the Iddhi Magic

Mentioned in Surangama Sutra,

Where say, The Bhikshu

Who delights in Transcendental

Solitude and Brilliant Silence

And Rhinoceros Sorrow

Shall be saved, & transported

Magically in the air

To his Blessed Pure Land

Diamond Irradiation

From the Crown of Buddha.

Wild – I wait by candlelight

for confirmation

(And I see waving whitenesses)

192nd Chorus

“O thou who holdest the seal

of power, raise thy diamond

hand, bring to naught, destroy,

exterminate.

O thou sustainer, sustain

all who are in extremity.

O thou purifier, purify all

who are in bondage to self.

May the ender of suffering

be victorious. Om!

Om! Oh! Thou perfectly enlightened,

enlighten all sentient beings.

O thou who art perfect in wisdom

and compassion,

Emancipate all beings, & bring

them to Buddhahood. Om!

Adoration to Tathagata (Attainer

to Actual Isness), Sugata

(Attainer to Actual Goodness),

Buddha (Who is Awake), Perfect

in Pity and Intelligence

193rd Chorus

Who has accomplished,

And is accomplishing,

And will accomplish,

All these words

Of mystery,

Svaha,

So be it,

Amen.”

Numberless roses arranged,

The milk of merriment

without the curds,

The Pleased Milk

of Humankindness

The Frowns of worried saints,

The Helpless Hands of Buddha

burning,

The Crown Prince of the Lotus

Blossom Sky,

Lover of all the mental phantoms

in the mind –

Wordmaker, curdmaker

Kingmaker, Ding

Dong, the Buddha’s Gong

194th Chorus

Being in selfless one-ness

With the such-ness

That is Tathagatahood,

So is everybody else

Lost with you

In that bright sea

Of non-personality.

In teaching the Paramitas

Of Virtue and Sweetness,

The Wu-Weis of Love,

The Tehs of Sensibility,

And all the Tibetan Arhat

Secrets of the Buddha Mountain

World up & down of which

We race in celestial racingcars

On imaginary hills seeking

Salvation at the goal,

Flagged by Dominos of Bodhi

And Oil men Ragged Hero

Mechanic Sariputran

Minnesinging Gurus, on we rave.

195th Chorus

The songs that erupt

Are gist of the poesy,

Come by themselves, hark,

Stark as prisoners in a cave

Let out to sunlight, ragged

And beautiful when you look close

And see underneath the beards

the holy blue eyes of humanity

And brown.

The stars on high sing

songs of their own, in motion

that doesnt move, real,

Unreal, singsong, spheres:–

But human poetries

With God as their design

Sing with another law

Of spheres & ensigns

And rip me a blues,

Son, blow me a bop,

Let me hear ’bout heaven

In Brass Fluglemop

196th Chorus

So I write about heaven,

Smoke for the scene,

Wanta bring everyone

Straight to the dream.

If you only could hold

what you know

As you know it forever,

instead-a

Moving from griefy to griefy,

lament to lament,

Groan, and have to come out

and smile once again,

– S teada all that,

A hospital for the sick,

Lying high in crystal,

In heaven of pure

adamantine

Consanguine

Partiality devoid

Of conditions, free –

Here I go rowin

Thru Lake Innifree

Looking for Nirvana

Inside me

197th Chorus

Inside, Inside Me,

I’se free

Free as the bee

Inside he.

Lord have a mercy

on Hallelujah Town

I got to stomp my foot,

And say, whee,

hey dad, now oan,

from now oan,

I dont wanta

cant wanta

wont wanta

hear about it

not in my Oakland

Saloon, not in my bar

Not in my brokenglass

Not in my jar

Blue, black, race, grace,

face,

I love ye.

198th Chorus

Nirvana aint inside me

cause there aint no me.

Nirvana’s everywhere

’xceptin’ what’s everywhere

And so all is nowhere.

Swimmin free, in the lake free,

Rowing to the other beachy.

Tall guards you say? tall

saloons? maloons?

Tall goons? Tall tunes?

Tall stately heroes

Tall calm saints

Tall long tendrils

of cloud-air

Tall unobstructed

ghost whitenesses

Imagining on the edge

of the pier –

Just not there.

199th Chorus

Empty balloons of gorgeous?

Wild upskies bedazzling radiant?

Immense arcades of secret joy?

Caves of light, Ya-Vingo,

dream-material palaces

high in the texture

of the high thought?

Nirvana? Heaven?

X? Whatyoucallit?

Swear

Huge milky areas of silence

Permeated by rose petals

crushed in diamond vats –

Great baths of glory? –

Singing quiet humsound?

White light of black eternity?

Golden Secret Figures

Of Unimaginable

Inexpressible Flowers

Blooming in the One Own

Mind

Essence

200th Chorus

White figures throughout

made of light,

Like a truck becomes a square

mass of shining light bars,

Empty Apparitional secret

figure of the mind.

More than that. Face

is mass of swarm-roe

starlight, insanity

itself personified

& taking up space

& penetrable throughout.

Secret parleys with saviour

Angels outside brown rooms

Where phantoms converge

In light, black and white,

Dazzling in the middle

With one Insane Bar Light –

One Shiningness

And you know darkness nullifies

the color

Into Nirvana No

201st Chorus

When the girls start puttin

Nirvana-No on their lips

Nobody’ll see them.

Poor girls, did they always

Want attention? Did they

always disturb

The sitting saint in the woods

and make him feel

Cheap by sayin: “Those

guys think they

can sit down & be God.”

– “They think they dont

have to work

because they are God

and they sit down

and think they are God”

– Those Guys …

Over their heads is the unbelievable

unending

emptiness

the enormous

nothingness

of the skies

And they claim

202nd Chorus

A white poem, a white pure

spotless poem

A bright poem

A nothing poem

A no-poem non poem

nondream clean

silverdawn clear

silent of birds

pool-burble-bark

clear

the lark of trees

the needle pines

the rock the pool

the sandy shore

the cleanness of dogs

the

frogs

the

pure white

spotless

Honen

Honey Land

Blues

203rd Chorus

Heaven’s inside you but there’s no you.

What does that mean?

said the teacher,

The Great Holy the All Holy

Old Teacher:–

All you’ve got to do

Everytime you feel sick

Is stop (this madhouse

shot of yours

is not exactly

the immemorial miel)

stop – and stare

through the things

before your eyes

with eyes unfocused

and as soon as they move

you will have seen

that they move

to illusion.

Seeing that all’s illusion

You lose your mind

In meditation

And heal yourself well

(AND WHAT’S BEEN HEALED?)

204th Chorus

What’s been buried in the grave?

Dust.

Perfect dust?

Perfect dust in time.

Time.

Time is dust.

Time’s not dust

Time’s already happened

immemorially

The pearl of the gods

the agonizer of Wests

The ball in the bubble

void

Time –

Dont worry bout time.

What’s been buried inside me

for sure?

The substance of my own father’s

empty light

Derived from time working

on dirt

And clay bones.

Buddha’s River.

205th Chorus

Enter the Holy Stream.

March with the Saints.

Follow along the emptiness.

Follow bright the ferrymen

And follow the All Star

And sing with the others

In praise of the light

In praise of the emptiness

so bright

In praise of the OO-LA-LA’S

Of Parisian Women.

In praise of the singsong

mingsong

brokesong

lostsong

Ah Time

Ah Perturbable

Me, Sir,

Dis-beturbable Ameget

Me

206th Chorus

Maaaaaah! said the sheep

And opened its foxtail soft

Mouth to say something empty,

To express its reverentation,

And M n a a a came

the bull cry something-cry

Because you cant sing

open yr mouth with poems

without you make sound

and sound is wrong

sound is noise

But only human speech

and also all sentient

communication

pointing to the finger

that points at sound

saying ‘Sound is Noise’ –

Otherwise

sound itself

un-self-enlightenable

would go on blatting

& blaring unrecognized

as emptiness and silence

207th Chorus

Aztec Blues – Imitation of Pound

A God called “Drink the Flood

Water” – HUETEOTL –

Is a very old God.

What older God could you get

GLED-ZAL-WAD-LE,

The Sound of the Feathered Serpent,

cause of the flood.

He came from:

“Destroyed-Over-Flooded-Land-

Exiled-Him-Water-Pour,”

Which means: He is Water.

He is the Flood.

He is the Ocean that Floods

Serpent as the Sign of Flood, Ah

Sax –

Bird-feather is a sign of escape,

flight, exile –

The Feathered Serpent

Snakes that Fly

Nail Eternity

To bye/

TONA TI UH:- “Of the Sunken Your Ear”

208th Chorus

Anciently in cities

men have been sitting

in waiting rooms

in the night bloated

with food and alcohol

waiting waiting waiting

as though the city existed not.

They are so old.

They think all alike.

I’ve seen them die in chairs

Quietly in cities they never planned.

Seen them sing in saloons

For muffled uproars.

Seen men in coffee houses

Shoot the opium cup

With Greeks of Brotherhood.

Aztec Pulque Distributors

Rembrandtian city committees

And unions of Masons –

Shoot the sperm cup to me, Jim,

These partitioned Anglo Spanese

Singing sneerers perturbing

You in the background

Are your father’s kindly

buriers

209th Chorus

Well, that about does me in.

I’ve packed my bags and time

Has come to start to heaven.

Afraid of the trip. Always

Thought it was short & snappy

And I wouldnt worry. Or

Always thought I’d be glad to go.

But who’s glad to go? I want gold.

I want rich safety in my legs

And good bones made of empty milk

Of God-Kindness – I want

I need I cry like baby

I want my Partotooty

Sweety backpie back

And dong strang bang bong

Dont scrounge my yoll-scrolls

And try to fool with me

One more time & I report you

To the pimp, whore God –

I got the woozes

Said the wrong thing

Want gold want gold

Gold of eternity

210th Chorus

Impressionism. The drowned afternoon

along the sunny carnival –

Trees waving over rock walls

of drowned scummers –

Glutted bloatbellies blue as the bay

scummed in tangle raft –

Shit on a leaf, by the pier,

shit used as leaf paper

Piled by flooded Ack Merrimoil

the Plantaneous River

of Fra Devilico Mojostico

the Funny Folly Phoney balloon

of Polateira Mia OOLA

the Crap’ in-ping, Caing,

and mutter of imbecile

boys in jungle beehive fish.

Blop.

Centurions. Potalishakions.

Prerts. F. Funks. P.l.u.p.s.

Frains Trails Moss.

Scum. Sing my lil yella

basket. A tisket. Tasket.

Athabasket. Ma the basket.

211th Chorus

The wheel of the quivering meat

conception

Turns in the void expelling human beings,

Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits,

Mice, lice, lizards, rats, roan

Racinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,

Horrible unnameable lice of vultures,

Murderous attacking dog-armies

Of Africa, Rhinos roaming in the

jungle,

Vast boars and huge gigantic bull

Elephants, rams, eagles, condors,

Pones and Porcupines and Pills –

All the endless conception of living

beings

Gnashing everywhere in Consciousness

Throughout the ten directions of space

Occupying all the quarters in & out,

From supermicroscopic no-bug

To huge Galaxy Lightyear Bowell

Illuminating the sky of one Mind –

Poor! I wish I was free

of that slaving meat wheel

and safe in heaven dead

212th Chorus

All of this meat is in dreadful pain

Anytime circumstances attain

To its attention like a servant

And pricking goads invest the flesh,

And it quivers, meat, & owner cries

And wishes “Why was I born with a body,

Why do I have this painful hive

Of hope-of-honey-milk yet bane

Of bitterest reward, as if, to wish

For flesh was sin alone itself – ?”

And now you gotta pay, rhinoceros

and you,

Tho his hide’s toughern ten young men

Armed with picks against the Grim

Reaper

Whose scythe is preceded by pitchforks

Of temptation & hell, the Horror:

“Think of pain, you’re being hurt,

Hurry, hurry, think of pain

Before they make a fool of you

And discover that you dont feel

It’s the best possible privilege

To be alive just to die

And die in denizen of misery”

213th Chorus

Poem dedicated to Allen Ginsberg

– prap – rot – rort –

mort – port – lort – snort

– pell mell – rhine wine –

roll royce – ring ming –

mock my lot – roll my doll –

pull my hairline – smell my kell –

wail my siren – pile my ane –

loose my shoetongue – sing my aim –

loll my wildmoll – roll my

luck –

lay my cashier gone amuk –

suck my lamppole, raise the bane,

hang the traitor

inside my brain

Fill my pail well,

ding my bell, smile for the ladies,

come from hell

214th Chorus

Ling the long Chinese peeswallower,

a lad like ye,

Laid his hand on Garty’s knee

and paid the pree –

Shong the mong of anisfore,

Maharajah

Dusty, kinked the from of Jaidphur

from the Konk mirror free

So all Bojangles Banghard

had to do

Was roil his roily tooty

mot the polyong,

And if you knew what I meant

you would say

You disgust me –

Aright, ring the devil free –

Bong – Ring the devil free

Prong – ring the devil free,

Song, ring the devil free,

Ong, ring the biney free

215th Chorus

Moll the mingling, mixup

All your mixupery,

And mail it in one envelopey:

Propey, Slopey, Kree.

Motey, slottey, notty,

Potty, shotty, rotty, wotty,

Salty, grainy, wavey,

Takey, Carey, Andy

Sari Pari Avi Ava

Gava lava mava dava

Sava wava ga-ha-va

Graharva pharva

Dharma rikey rokkkk

Tokkkk sokkkk

Mrockk, the Org

Of Old Pootatolato

England Ireland

O

Sail to Sea

216th-A Chorus

Fuck, I’m tired of this imagery

– I wanta quit this horseshit

go home

and go to bed

But I got no home,

sickabed,

suckatootle,

wanta led

bonda londa

rolla molla

sick to my

bella bella

donna donna

I’m a goner

Soner, loner,

moaner,

Poan, cornbelly,

No loan,

Ai, ack,

C r a c k /

I’m sick of this

misery poesy/ flap Jean

Louis

Miseree

216th-B Chorus

Filling the air with an arbitrary dream –

When no desire arises, that is the original

Feeling of peace in Actual Nature –

It is not moot to question how a dream

ends

Whenaslong as it ends –

A Baby in Pain:

tell the proud seminal mother

how many more of that she wants

to satisfy her fertile ego

and how many more babies

crying in the night, angry screech,

knowing that their flesh is on the block

of death the hungry butcher.

– how many pigs hung upsidedown

and slowly bled to death

by reverent ritual fools

with no noses and no eyes

Emancipate the human masses

Of this world from slavery to life

And death, by abolishing death

And exterminating birth –

O Samson me that –

The Venerable Kerouac, friend of Cows

DEPEND ON VAST MOTIONLESS THOUGHT

216th-C Chorus

Well roofed pleasant little hut,

screened from winds:

That’s all I need. Foursquare

The image of the Buddha in my brain,

Drawing from the countryside the verdant

Fantasm of conception, saying:

“We green imageries of bush & tree,

Like you, have risen from a mystery,

And the mystery is fantastic,

Unreal, illusion, and sane,

And strange – It is: When ye

Are not born, thou never showest:

When thou art born thou showest,

Thou showest emeralds and pine trees

And thou showest, and if not born

Thou showest naught in white

Dazzling buried in mindless obscure sea

That strange eternity devises to befool,

Befoul and play unfair with Mag

The worshipper and worrier, Man,

Mag, Mad,

it’s all green trees, men

And dogs of toothbone:

All shine in the dust,

All the same Novice Scotia”

217th Chorus

Sooladat smarty pines came prappin down

My line of least regard last Prapopooty

And whattaya think Old Father Time

made him? a western sponnet

Without no false on bonnet,

Trap in the cock adus time of the Nigh,

Slight the leak of recompense being

hermasodized

By finey wild traphoods in all

their estapular

glories

Gleaming their shining-rising spears

against the High Thap All Thup –

So I aim my gazoota always

to the God, remembering the origin

Of all beasts and cod, Bostonian

By nature, with no minda my own,

Could write about railroads, quietus

These blues, hurt my hand more,

Rack my hand with labor of nada

– Run 100 yard dash

in Ole Ensanada –

S what’ll have to do,

this gin & tonics

Perss o monnix

twab

twab

twabble

all day

218th Chorus

Sight the saver having from the coast

put further items down – what? you

wish to talk to me, hear me scratch

at the mean little door, hiding in my bonnet –

O come off it, the vast canopial

Assemblies wait for yr honest spontaneous reply.

What shall it be?

I promise to reject pain when next

My turn comes back again

I promise not to steal, nor go to hell

For stealing

I promise to say Na

When Tathagata’s Angels

Ride for me. Na –

I wanta go to Inside-Me,

Is there such a place? No is.

Flap the wack I smack the hydrant

of desire, sip sop the twill –

(hiding all them guys – ’twere

as I told you, old dreams

of young brides’ll do you no more good)

Wake up Scribe! Pharisee!

The axxabata

f l O R I A N I O L A

S P R I N G T I M E

OW OH ALL

OFFICIAL SEMINARY

219th Chorus

Saints, I give myself up to thee.

Thou hast me. What mayest thou do?

What hast thou? Hast nothing?

Hast illusion. Hast rage, regret,

Hast pain. Pain wont be found

Outside the Monastery only –

Hast decaying saints like Purushka

Magnificent Russian-booted bird loving

Father Zossima under the cross

In his father cell in Holy Russia

And Alyosha falls to the ground

And Weeps, as Rakitin smears.

Grushenka sits him on her lap

And lacky daisies him to lull

And love and loll with her

And wild he runs home in the night

Over Charade Chagall fences

snow-white

To the pink cow of his father’s ear,

Which he slits, presenting to Ivan

As an intellectual courtesy, Dmitri

Burps, Smerdyakov smirks.

The Devil giggles in his poorclothes.

Saints, accept me to the drama

of thy faithful desire.

No me? No drama to desire?

No Alyosha, no Russia, no tears?

Good good good good, my saints.

No saints? No no no my saints.

No no? No such thing as no.

220th Chorus

Pieces of precious emerald and jade

Come from igneous rock once on fire,

Erupted through a volcano, sandstone,

Came out oozing in crevices

Pieces of light long buried in the earth

Are diamonds and floods of them.

“Amen the Jewel in the Lotus!”

Prays the Tibetan Saint with Prayerwheel,

“Om Mani Padhme Hum,”

He wants to pile up credit

Like the jewel in the rock

So that when he’s found

The doves will have laid aground

Eggs of bright amethystine

Wallowing splendorous decay,

Kings of Ore, art of fathers

Handed to sons, fire and air.

Kingdoms have been founded on diamonds,

Emeralds and pearls, and walkways

Of padded lily milky meshed

And crushed in holy feet, Maha

Graha Sattva, Being of Great Power,

Fortunes in Wisdom, Stores of Love.

Mountains rise high, diamonds shine,

Men ride high the alumpshine

The lump sunshine

Delicious is the taste of Porcupine

221st Chorus

Old Man Mose

Early American Jazz pianist

Had a grandson

Called Deadbelly.

Old Man Mose walloped

the rollickin keyport

Wahoo wildhouse Piany

with monkies in his hair

drooling spaghetti, beer

and beans, with a cigar

mashed in his countenance

of gleaming happiness

the furtive madman

of old sane times.

Deadbelly dont hide it –

Lead killed Leadbelly –

Deadbelly admit

Deadbelly modern cat

Cool – Deadbelly, Man,

Craziest.

Old Man Mose is Dead

But Deadbelly get Ahead

Ha ha ha

222nd Chorus

Mexico Camera

I’m walkin down Orizaba Street

looking everywhere. Ahead of me I

see a mansion, with wall, big

lawn, Spanish interiors, fancy

windows very impressive

Further bloated copulated bloats

Silent separative furniture

The Story of No-Mad, silent

separative corpses;

Ignorino the Indian General

He Chief, wow,

Of Southern Sonora,

You know the Bum,

what was his name?

Asserfelter Shnard Marade,

the Marauding Hightailer

of Southern Slopetawvia,

krum, full of kerrs and kierke

gaard/

and bash bah

the Plap

223rd Chorus

Pineys hursaphies,

Finally allawies,

Fonally finalles.

Hookies from OO-SKOOL,

Polls for Who Hook Fish,

Fowl for Fair Weather.

Wu! cries the Indian Boy

in the South Sampan Night,

“Esta que ferro,” you be of iron,

I’ll be a damn tootely wow

wot Rot Moongut Rise Shine

Hogwater Wheel –

Juice a the eel –

In Old Lake Miel –

Honey wheel –

Sound

E Terpt T A pt T E rt W –

Song of I Snug Our Song

Sang of Asia High Gang

Clang of Iron O Hell Pot –

Spert of Ole Watson Ville

Gert –

Smert –

Noise of old sad so

Such Is

Sing a little ditty of the moon inside the loony

boon of snow white blooms in Parkadystan

I S T A M H O W H U C K

224th Chorus

Great God Amighty

What’s to be done?

O what’s to be done?

Sings the majestical keener

and moaner

At the Mexican Funeral home –

And from a clap in the upclouds

Comes a clap of clouts,

“All has been done.”

As Theravada say “Nothing”

Nada moonshine number, whats been done?

All been done – all singly blessed –

All has been done? The mansion’s

been built and Damema

grown old & died

in burning house within?

And Seventeen Sutras & Lotuses

Transmitted by Perfumed Hand

From Jingle to Jiggle

The Hip Hou Parade

of Togas & Mowrdogrogas

Of Maharajah India –

‘All’s been done’

‘so rest’

Repose yourself

225th Chorus

The void that’s highly embraceable

during sleep

Has no location and no fret;

Yet I keep restless mental searching

And geographical meandering

To find the Holy Inside Milk

Damema gave to all.

Damema, Mother of Buddhas,

Mother of Milk

In the dark I wryly remonstrate

With my sillier self

For feigning to believe

In the reality of anything

Especially the so-called reality

Of giving the Discipline

The full desert-hut workout

And superman solitude

And continual enlightened trance

With no cares in the open

And no walls closing in

The Bright Internal Heaven

Of the Starry Night

Of the Cloud Mopped afternoon –

Oh, Ah, Gold, Honey,

I’ve lost my way.

226th Chorus

There is no Way to lose.

If there was a way,

then,

when sun is shining on pond

and I go West, thou East,

which one does the true sun

follow?

which one does the true one

borrow?

since neither one is the true one,

there is no true one way.

And the sun is the delusion

Of a way multiplied by two

And multiplied millionfold.

Since there is no Way, no Buddhas,

No Dharmas, no Conceptions,

Only One Ecstasy –

And Right Mindfulness

Is mindfulness that the way is No-Way –

Anyhow Sameway –

Then what am I to do

Beyond writing this instructing

Poesy, ride a magic carpet

Of self ecstasy, or wait

For death like the children

In the Funeral Street after

The black bus has departed –

Or – what?

227th Chorus

Merde and misery,

I’m completely in pain

Waiting without mercy

For the worst to happen.

I’m completely at a loss,

There is no hope

Though I know the arbitrary conception

of suffering is racking

my metaphysical

handicapped ribs,

and I dont even exist less sing,

and I been paid

for work I done

when I was young

and work was fun

and I dont know name from mercy,

aint got no blues

no shoes no eyes

no shoetongues, lungs,

no happiness, no art,

nothing to do, nothin to part,

no hairs to split

sidewalks to spit,

words to make flit

in the fun-of make-it,

horror & makeshift poetry

covering the fact I’m afraid

to work at a steady job

jungles of hair on my wrists

magnified 1000 times

in Hells of Eternity

228th Chorus

Praised be man, he is existing in milk

and living in lillies –

And his violin music takes place in milk

and creamy emptiness –

Praised be the unfolded inside petal

flesh of tend’rest thought –

(petrels on the follying

wave-valleys idly

sing themselves asleep) –

Praised be delusion, the ripple –

Praised the Holy Ocean of Eternity –

Praised be I, writing, dead already &

dead again –

Dipped in ancid inkl

the flamd

of T i m

the Anglo Oglo Saxon Maneuvers

Of Old Poet-o’s –

Praised be wood, it is milk –

Praised be Honey at the Source –

Praised be the embrace of soft sleep

– the valor of angels in valleys

of hell on earth below –

Praised be the Non ending –

Praised be the lights of earth-man –

Praised be the watchers –

Praised be my fellow man

For dwelling in milk

229th Chorus

In the ocean there’s a very sad turtle

(Even tho the SS Mainline Fishin Ship

is reeling in the merit like mad)

Swims longmouthed & sad, looking

for the Impossible Except Once

afternoon when the Yoke, Oh,

the old Buddha Yoke set a-floatin

is in the water where the turtle raises

his be-watery snop to the sea

and the Yoke yokes the Turtle

a Eternity –

“Tell me O Bhikkus,

what are the chances,

of such a happening,

for the turtle is old

and the yoke free,

and the 7 oceans bigger

than any we see

in this tiny party.”

Chances are slender –

In a million million billion kotis

of Aeons and Incalculables, Yes,

the Turtle will set that Yoke free,

but till then, harder yet

are the chances, for a man

to be reborn a man

in this Karma earth

230th Chorus

Love’s multitudinous boneyard

of decay,

The spilled milk of heroes,

Destruction of silk kerchiefs

by dust storm,

Caress of heroes blindfolded to posts,

Murder victims admitted to this life,

Skeletons bartering fingers and joints,

The quivering meat of the elephants of kindness

being torn apart by vultures,

Conceptions of delicate kneecaps,

Fear of rats dripping with bacteria,

Golgotha Cold Hope for Gold Hope,

Damp leaves of Autumn against

the wood of boats,

Seahorse’s delicate imagery of glue,

Sentimental “I Love You” no more,

Death by long exposure to defilement,

Frightening ravishing mysterious beings

concealing their sex,

Pieces of the Buddha-material frozen

and sliced microscopically

In Morgues of the North,

Penis apples going to seed,

The severed gullets more numerous than sands –

Like kissing my kitten in the belly

The softness of our reward

231st Chorus

Dead and dont know it,

Living and do.

The living have a dead idea.

A person is a living idea;

after death, a dead idea.

The idea of living is the same

as the idea of death.

The dead have a living idea –

Dead, it aint my fault

I was only an idea –

Respected penitence in a shack

dedicated to the study of Origin –

The good Buddha-material

is not a sin-cloth –

Cloth of Light –

Beings alive indicate death

by their jaunty work

Just as the dead indicate the living

by their silence

When rock becomes air

I will be there

232nd Chorus

Buddhists are the only people who dont lie,

In the Sacred Diamond Sutra

Mention is made that God will die –

“There are no Buddhas

and no Dharmas” – means –

There is no Universal Salvation Self,

The Tathagata of Thusness has understood

His own Luvaic Emanations

As being empty, himself and his womb

Included – No Self God Heaven

Where we all meet and make it,

But the Meltingplace of the Bone Entire

In One Light of Mahayana Gold,

Asvhaghosha’s singing in your ear,

And Jesus at your feet, washing them,

And St. Francis whistling for the birds –

All conjoined though and melted

And all be-forgotten, pas’t on,

Come into Change’s Lightless Domain

And beyond all Conception,

Waiting in anticipatory halls

Of Bar-Light, ranging, searchlights

Of the Eye, Maitreya and his love,

The dazzling obscure parade

of elemental diamond phantoms

And dominos of chance,

Skeletons painted on Negresses

Standing by unimportant-to-you

Doorways, into Sleep-With-Me

The alley way behind.

233rd Chorus

There is no selfhood that can begin the practice

Of seeking to attain Anuttara Samyak Sambodhi

Highest Perfect Wisdom

Yet

“Faithfully and earnestly observe and study

and explain this Scripture to others”

is the gory reminder of bone.

Others. “Listen, Subhuti! Wherever

This Scripture shall be observed and studied

and explained, that place

will become sacred ground

to which countless devas and angels

will bring offerings. Such

places, however humble they may be,

will be reverenced as though

they were famous temples & pagodas,

to which countless pilgrims will come

to offer worship and incense.

And over them the devas & angels

Will hover like a cloud & will sprinkle

offerings of celestial flowers

upon them.”

The Pilgrims are happy.

The Pilgrim of the Holy Grail, the Snail,

The Pilgrim of the Fine Pagoda,

The Pilgrim of the Five Tendencies

to Hear and Support Prayer –

No selfhood that can begin the practice

of seeking to attain

234th Chorus

Holy poetry.

“All things are empty of self-marks.”

“If it is space

that is perception of sight

You ought to know,

and if we were to substitute

One for the other, who’d win?”

Santiveda, St. Francis, A Kempis,

Hara

A sinner may go to Heaven

by serving God as a sinner

235th Chorus

Dont camp,

You know very well

What’ll happen to you

When you die

and claim

you dont know you’re dead

when you die and you know

“I know dont know that I’m dead”

Dont camp. Death, the no-buzz,

no-voices, is, must be, the same,

as life, the tzirripirrit of thupsounds

in this crazy world that horrifies my mornings

and makes me mad wildhaired in a room

like old metaphysical ogrish poets

in rooms of macabre mysteries.

But it’s hard to pretend you dont know

That when you die you wont know.

I know that I’m dead.

I wont camp. I’m dead now.

What am I waiting for to vanish?

The dead dont vanish?

Go up in dirt?

How do I know that I’m dead.

Because I’m alive

and I got work to do

Oh me, Oh my,

Hello – Come in –

236th Chorus

The Buddhist Saints are the incomparable saints

Mooing continue of lovemilk, mewling

And purling with lovely voices for love,

For perfect compassionate pity

Without making one false move

of action,

Perfectly accommodating commiserations

For all sentient belaboring things.

Passive Sweetsaints

Waiting for yr Holyhood,

Hoping your eventual join

In their bright confraternity.

Perfect Divines. I can name some.

What’s in a name. They were saints

Of the Religion of the Awakening

From the Dream of Existence

And non-existence.

They know that life and death,

The knowing of life, muteness of death,

Are mutual dual twin opposites

Conceptioning on each side of the Truth

Which is the pivot in the Center

And which says: “Neither life

nor death – neither existence

nor non-existence – but the central

lapse and absence of them both

(in Love’s Holy Void Abode)”

237th Chorus

“Ma mère, tu est la terre.”

What does that mean?

For one thing, Damema was the mother of Buddhas,

in Ancient India and Modern Asia

you put up a Virgin Mary very weird

in your altars and ikons, Damema,

with crowns of light coming out of her head

and lotuses and incense sticks

and big sad blue eyes inside Flowers.

People light perpetual candles to her name,

Wax in glass with wick, fire,

For 30 days the pale Mystic Face

Of Damema flickers in the ceiling corner

And the dogs bark outside.

They get water from the moon,

Send boys out of sight in baskets,

Sleep in the streets of night,

Playing flutes & having curbstone nightclubs

And the curbstone put there by the British –

They honor and beseech and pray to

Damema.

To me Damema is like Virgin Mary,

Mother Maya of Siddhartha Buddha

Died at his childbirth,

Like all mothers should be,

Going to heaven on their impulse

Pure and free and champion of birth.

Damema the Milky Mother

Damema the Secret Hero

238th Chorus

Who was it wrote “Money is the root of all evil?”

Was it Oscar Wilde in one of his witties?

Was it Celine – nah.

Was it Alexander Pope, Benjamin Franklin

or William Shakespeare –

Was it Pope in one of his many

clever lines?

Benjamin in his Almanac of Peers

has Richard the Chicken Liver

Express a private pear.

Or is Shakespeare blowing wild

Confucius-Polonius witticismical

Paternity-type advice –

“Money is the root of all evil”

For I will

Write

In my will

“I regret that I was not able

To love money more.”

For which reason I go into retreat

And monastery – all monastic in a cell

With devotions and hellpellmell

And Yumas Arctic Gizoto Almanac

Priotho Consumas Konas

In the Corner, & Mother Damema

239th Chorus

Charley Parker Looked like Buddha

Charley Parker, who recently died

Laughing at a juggler on the TV

after weeks of strain and sickness,

was called the Perfect Musician.

And his expression on his face

Was as calm, beautiful, and profound

As the image of the Buddha

Represented in the East, the lidded eyes,

The expression that says “All is Well”

– This was what Charley Parker

Said when he played, All is Well.

You had the feeling of early-in-the-morning

Like a hermit’s joy, or like

the perfect cry

Of some wild gang at a jam session

“Wail, Wop” – Charley burst

His lungs to reach the speed

Of what the speedsters wanted

And what they wanted

Was his Eternal Slowdown.

A great musician and a great

creator of forms

That ultimately find expression

In mores and what have you.

240th Chorus

Musically as important as Beethoven,

Yet not regarded as such at all,

A genteel conductor of string

orchestras

In front of which he stood,

Proud and calm, like a leader

of music

In the Great Historic World Night,

And wailed his little saxophone,

The alto, with piercing clear

lament

In perfect tune & shining harmony,

Toot – as listeners reacted

Without showing it, and began talking

And soon the whole joint is rocking

And everybody talking and Charley

Parker

Whistling them on to the brink of eternity

With his Irish St Patrick

patootle stick,

And like the holy piss we blop

And we plop in the waters of

slaughter

And white meat, and die

One after one, in time.

241st Chorus

And how sweet a story it is

When you hear Charley Parker

tell it,

Either on records or at sessions,

Or at official bits in clubs,

Shots in the arm for the wallet,

Gleefully he Whistled the

perfect

horn

Anyhow, made no difference.

Charley Parker, forgive me –

Forgive me for not answering your eyes –

For not having made an indication

Of that which you can devise –

Charley Parker, pray for me –

Pray for me and everybody

In the Nirvanas of your brain

Where you hide, indulgent and huge,

No longer Charley Parker

But the secret unsayable name

That carries with it merit

Not to be measured from here

To up, down, east, or west –

– Charley Parker, lay the bane,

off me, and every body

242nd Chorus

The sound in your mind

is the first sound

that you could sing

If you were singing

at a cash register

with nothing on yr mind –

But when that grim reper

comes to lay you

look out my lady

He will steal all you got

while you dingle with the dangle

and having robbed you

Vanish.

Which will be your best reward,

T’were better to get rid o

John O’ Twill, then sit a-mortying

In this Half Eternity with nobody

To save the old man being hanged

In my closet for nothing

And everybody watches

When the act is done –

Stop the murder and the suicide!

All’s well!

I am the Guard

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Mexico City Blues

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