Book of Blues (6 page)

Lets forget the strollers

Forget the scene

Lets close our eyes

Let me Instruct Thee

Here is dark milk

Here is our Sweet Mahameru

Who will Coo

To You Too

As he did to me

One night at three

When Iwkelt

Plee

knelt to See

Realit ee

And I said

‘Wilt thou protect me

for ‘ver?'

And he in his throatless

deep mother hole

Replied ‘Hom'

(Pauvre Ange)

Mahameru

Tathagata of Mercy

See

He

Now

in dark escrow

In the middleless dark

of eyelids' lash obliviso

so

Among rains of Transcendent

Pity

Abides since Ever

Before Evermore ness

of Thusness Imagined

O Maha Meru

O Mountain Sumeru

O Mountain of Gold

O Holy Gold

O Room of Gold

O Sweet peace

rememberance

O Navalit Yuku

Of sweet cactus

Thorn of No Time

—Ply me onward

like boat

thru this Sea

Safe to Shore

Ulysses never Sore

—Bless me Gerard

Bless thee, Living

I shall pray for all

sentient human

& otherwise sentient

beings here & everywhere

now—

No names

Not even faces

One Pity

One Milk

One Lovelight

save

*

I stand on my head on Desolation Peak

And see that the world is hanging

Into an ocean of endless space

The mountains dripping rock by rock

Like bubbles in the void

And tending where they want—

That at night the shooting stars

Are swimming up to meet us

Yearning from the bottom black

But never make it, alas—

That we walk around clung

To earth

Like beetles with big brains

Ignorant of where we are, how,

What, & upsidedown like fools,

Talking of governments & history,

—But Mount Hozomeen

The most beautiful mountain I ever seen,

Does nothing but sit & be a mountain,

A mess of double pointed rock

Hanging pouring into space

O frightful silent endless space

—Everything goes to the head

Of the hanging bubble, with men

The juice is in the head—

So mountain peaks are points

Of rocky liquid yearning

Mountains have skin, said Peter

Orlovsky of San Francisco—

And gorges shoot up clouds of mist

That look like planet smoke—

Dead trees, artistic as a cottage

on Truro,

Look like goat horns off a rock,

—Alpine firs turn evergreen browns

By August First when summer's dead

At high elevations—the creeks roar

And cataracts tumble pouring

But it's all upsidedown & strange

—Why do I sit here crosslegged

On this steaming rocky surface

Of a planet called earth

Scribbling with a pencil

Unmusical songs called songs

And why worry my juicy head

And rail my bony hand at words

And look around for more

And nothing means nothing

as of yore?—

T s the primordial essence

Manifesting forms, of happy

And unhappy, stuff & no-stuff,

Matter & space, phenomena

Front & noumena behind,

Out of exuberant nothingness

Yet birds mumble in the morning,

And raccoons tumble down the draws,

I saw one hit by his own rock

In a lil raccoon avalankey—

And firs point as ever

to infinity,

Their fine points top points too,

—Birds squeak like mice,

and moonlight bucks & does

Graze in my yard like cows

With big shootable flanks,

And hooves of eternity, clatter

on the rocks,

Run away when I open the door,

Down the hill, like silly frightened

schoolteachers—

Chipmunks are well named—

Bears & abominable snowmen

I have not yet seen—

Proud a that line—

Rock slides take generations to form,

I try to rush it along—

No rain in a month, nor yet

a month, within a month—

The beaked furthereal pine

points at a crazy

Upsidedown mid morning moon

as delicate

As a slide, like snow

All the worries that've plagued

everybody since Moses, Homer,

Sappho, Uparli, Cannibals and

Patawatamkonalokunopuh

Are worrin and playin me

on this mount of mystery—

I've T S Elioted all the fogs,

Faulknered all the stone,

Balanced nothing gainst something,

played solitaire, smoked,

Brought bashing sticks to midnight

frightful long tailed rats

And ranted at mosquitos,

And remembered my mother

her sweet labors of home

And the cold eyed sister

who made a bum outa me,

And friends, & goodtimes,

& prayed & gave up prayer,

And pondered history, myths,

stories, artistic plans, plays,

French movies, phalanxes

of disordered human crazy

Thought, & still it's upsidedown—

Silent—stiff—wont yield—

Wont tell—A big empty

Puppet stage, with rock

Distant valleys in Canada

look like they'd beckon

but I know better,—

I yearn for the flatlands again,

the gentle hill,—

At 4 PM the clouds of hope

Are horizon salmon floaters

Full of strange promise

abstracted from the golden age

in my breast—

Patches of snow dont do anything

but be

Patches of snow, till they melt,

And then water, it's nothing

but water

Till sun evaporates, then mist,

It's (as I look) nothing but mist

As it rises ululatory responding

to every shift of wind,

And will be mist, and will be

Mist,

And ants are nothing but just ants,

And rocks'll sit where they are

forever

Lessn I move em, throw em

down the gorge,

And then they spit a minute

I just dont understand—

tho mist'll be mist till

Heavens obdure, tho man'll

Be man till heavens obdure

Or hells obscure I just

dont

I just dont

Dont

Understand

I dont—

I want to know—soon's a do

I dont understand—if I said:

“I dont care” I understand—

I understand that

it doesnt matter.

Still the birdy clings, to earth,

He dont go silent on me,

I dont stop writing,

I dont stop living,

What a fool,—bust the bird.

The only thing that ever happens

to Hozomeen

Is that he'll get a wreath

of clouds

Every now & then

& breed to revel

Without moving a mighty shoulder

—I envy him his rock

But I want to live, I want

to get down

Off this Chinese Han Shan hill

and make it

To the city & walk the streets

And drink good wine

(Christian Brothers Port)

Or whiskey (Early Times

or Old Grand Dad)

And go to Chinese Movies

on Saturday Afternoon

And buy presents in the window

and watch the dust gather

On little stationary toys

In celluloid windows of children

And go to the vast markets

And eat tortillas beans

ice cream

And crime—and banana splits

and tea

And benzedrine & broads—

and waterfronts

And plays & play marquees

and Square Times

And you—I'd like to celebrate

upside

Down in cities

Once I saw a giant

in a building

He's here now, bending

over me,

Giant diamond gone insane.

Ta, the Golden Eternity,

Ta Ta Ta Ta,

Tathata, trumpet, Ta Ta,

This giant diamond might

Here is got some name'r other

But
I dont know

I dont care

and it makes no difference

And now I'm wise.

When the whole wide world

is fast asleep I cry.

Let me offer you

my reassuring profile

Saying, “It's okay, girl, we'll

make it

Till the sun goes down forever

And until then what you got

to lose

But the losing? We're fallen

angels

Who didnt believe

That nothing means nothing.”

We're hanging into the abyss

of blue—

In it is nothing but innumerable

and endless worlds

More numerous even (& the number

of beings!)

Than all the rocks that cracked

And became little rocks

In all that rib of rock

That extends from Alaska,

Nay the Aleutian tips,

Down through these High Cascades,

Through to California & Ensenada,

Down, through High Tepic, down

To Tehuantepec, down,

The rib, to Guatemala & on,

Colombia, Andes, till the High

Bottom Chilean & Tierra

del Fuego

O yoi yoi

And on around to Siberia—

In other words, & all the grains

of sand that comprise

A rock, and all the grains

of atomstuff therein,

More worlds than that

in the empty blue sea

We hang in, upsidedown,

—Too much to be real

But it's real

it's as real as the squares

on this page

And as real as my sore ass

sitting on a rock

And as real as hand, sun,

pencil, knee,

Ant, breezed, stick,

water, tree, color,

peeop, birdfeather,

snag, smoke,

haze, goat,

appearance

and low crazed cloud

And dream of the Far Northwest

And the little mounted policeman

Of my dreams on a ridge—

Not an Indian in sight—

Real, real as fog in London town

and croissants in Paris

and swchernepetchzels

in Prienna

And Praha Maha Fuckit

—Real, real,

unreal,

deal,

Zeal,

I say, dont care if it's real

or unreal, I'se

And if you dont like the tone

of my poems

You can go jump in the lake.

I have been empowered

to lay my hand

On your shoulder

and remind you

That you are utterly free,

Free as empty space.

You dont have to be famous,

dont have to be perfect,

Dont have to work,

dont have to marry,

Dont have to carry burdens,

dont have to gnaw & kneel,

the taste

of rain—

Why kneel?

Dont even have to sit,

Hozomeen,

Like an endless rock camp

go ahead & blow,

Explode & go,

I wont say nothin,

neither this rock,

And my outhouse doesnt care,

And I got no body

Little weird flower,

why did you grow?

Who planted you

on this god damned hill?

Who asked you to grow?

Why dont you go?

What's wrong with yr. orange tips?

I was under the impression

that you were sposed to be

some kind of perfect nature.

Oh, you are?

Just jiggle in the wind. I see.

At yr feet I see a nosegay

bou kay

Of seven little purple apes

who dint grow so high

And a sister of yours

further down the precipice—

and your whole family

to the left—

I thot last week

you were funeral bouquets

for me

that never askt

to be born

or die

But now I guess

I'm just talkin

thru my

empty head

Ah monstrous

sweet monsters,

who spawned

thee chalk?

God? Who

Godded me?

Who me'd

God, chalk'd

Thought, &

Me sank

Down

To

Fall

A tché tché tcha

hoot ee

Wheet wha you—

Sweet monstranot love

By momma dears

Hey

Call God the Mother

To stop this fight

Someday you'll be lying

there in a nice trance

and suddenly a hot

soapy brush will be

applied to your face

—it'll be unwelcome

—someday the

undertaker'll shave you

*

I almost called these poems

Pickpocket Blues

because they are the repetition

by memory

of earlier poems

stolen from me

by twelve thieves

Ah monster sweet monster

Who spawned all this God

A Marva Ah Marvaila

Ah Marva Marvay

Ah marve Ah Me

Ah John O Ah John

Oka John—

Where do you worka

John—Ah John,

How do you William the

Conqueror this morning

With your height old otay

—Nay, sight less worse,

Urp, the spur that did nape

At the wick the whack

Of the horse's piniard, urt,

So up heaved Pegasus

To rape the Sirens

And Black Bastards Hold Out their Arms

One was called Boston Kitty—

He was a one-whack artist

Hold down the rope & the boy

And slip his villons i the store

—Oy—

This turp then, he was smart,

His wife was bloomer-hiding

Dress-thief, best, New York,

—Oir—

Ay

May the Wild Queen that Whanged

All the men with pipes

And ironingboard trays, i the

Movie bout paird?—

Waird!

Haird all about it in Dawson

Lass night, boys was tellin

The stove of the night

Hair—Robert Olson

Me that, Mrs Blake

Pollyanna me that, Matt

Baker me Mary me Eddy

somethin bout life,—

Feed me T bone steaks

Off cows was allowed

Was allowed to be et

By men and maids

And Pomfranet

Poignardi me that,

hurt,—slip me the knife

in the chest, het—

they'll cut off my arms

and my losen legs

And my Peter Orlovsky

Clasel soul shall say:

Oido me no mo

Ah moidnous two movies

Was railroad and et

Ah turpitude & turpentine

And serpentine & pine

Ah me star-veil

that I see

Majesticking mightily

on the rail

Of heaven-hailward

high's moitang

Montana, me mountain,

Me Madonna, me high

Me most marvelous marvel

That held over the pie

Me sky of the Denver

Platte alley below

Me that me, me that me,

Me that me no more

Brang!—blong!—trucks

Break glass i the dog barking

Street—dwang, wur,

Ta ta ta

ta ta

Me that was weaned in the

heaven's machine

Me that was wailed

in the wild bar

called fence

Me that repeated & petered

The meter & lost 2 cents

Me that was fined

To be hined

And refined

Ay

Me that was

Whoo ee

The owl

On the fence

Me that was eyed

And betied by the eyes

In the glasses, In the Place,

In the night, brown beer,

Me that was maitled

And draitled and dragged

Me that was xarmined

By Murder Machree

Me that was blarnied

By Mary Carney

Me that was loved

Me that was hay

Me that the sunshine

Burned out every day

Me that was spotted

And beshatted

By Marcus Magee

Hey listen you poetry audiences

If you dont shut up

And listen to the potry,

See, we'll get a guy at the gate

To bar all potry haters

Forevermore

Then, if you dont like the subject

Of the poem that the poit

Is readin, geen, why dont

You try Marlon Brando

Who'll open your eyes

With his cry

James Dean is dead?—

Aint we all?

Who aint dead—

John Barrymore is dead

Naw, San Francisco is dead

—San Francisco is bleat

With the fog

(And the fences are cold)

Old, San Francisco so old,

Shining garden on the end of the gate

Great plastic garden

Full of poets and hate

Fine wild bar place with high

Flootin dandies, Portugese,

Philippino, and just plain

Ole Dandy, Mandy tendin

The bar in the Brothers McCoy

On Sixth Street near Mission,

And Old Whitecap Sailor

Goes lonely the road

And Market Street on Sunday

There's no body broad

And O I see cliffside

With electrical magic

Message it me gives out

And sending Einstein

Me n McCorkle sit there

Eating in the Dharma

We booted and we brained

Every seedy wet cold hill

And walked by rubber gardens

Behind telephones of shame

And came out mid the flowers

Of Heaven's O Gate

We treed every boner

Kited and committed

Longtailed and selffloored

And worked 78 to Del Monte

And back

Crashed Lux Perpetua

And tied up the mate

And dumped him down

In Chinatown

To Vegetate

So's cooks could clew garbage

And discover entrails

of babies made by Negresses

Against fences of taxis

Soft!—the mysteries lie

In Eglantine

And Tathagata Nous Dit

Toujours, pas d secour,

Pas d secour

Soft—pie-tailed bird-dog

Sing Song Charley the Poet

From High Masquerade

Is about to shake the rain

From his empty head

And deliver a blurbery statement

About bubbles and balloons

Balloons O balloons

BALLOONS BALLOONS

BALLOONS O BALLOONS

BAL

LOONS

BALLOONS

When the rain falls on the Concord

And grapes are growing in New Hampshire

Mud hides wine bottles of green

And gay delight—When it rains

In Mexico, Oi Oi Oi, the swish

And plump and drenching Zapoteca

Big fat lump cacti growing in the night

Slipslop the sleeps of cats by the fence

And “Alms my youth!” cry women

To the passing Americano Oi—

Hate and oido, Old San Francisco's

Going to go—

Red, white and black, and blue

The pistil was tender when vines

Hund and daundered explosives

Of surrealistic pensioners

Dishrags have faces

Flashlights have hate

Pine trees are sweetest

To sit and meditate

The Holy Virgin of Heaven

Saw us in the rainy first morning

Lost me Juju beads in the woods

And stood on dry stumps

and looked around

And Lightning Creek morely roared

And wow the wild Jack Mountain

Abominable Snowman rooted

in a stump

Even throwing football shadow

When games is ranging in the sky

Ah Gary,—would sweet Japan

Her gardens allay me

And make end sweet perfidy

—Full belly make you say

nice things—

When rice bowl filled, Buddha frown

I' the West, because Wall of China

Has no holds

Holdfast to temple mountain chain

Throw away the halfdollars

Big and round, & wad of gum,

And flashlight lamp—& paint—

Go be shaved head monster

In a cave—No, tea ceremony

Beneath a sweet pine tree

(Oi?)

The little birds that live on the tree

In South America

Under clouds that make faces at me

Last night beautiful faces

Mad Dog McGoy of Heaven's

White Office, was sheening

His ocean spray at me

With holes for eyes

And every kind majesty—

Mocking at faces at me,

O me,—gingerale we drank

In Montreal when Errgang was young

And Wagner bleeded on the dump

And the dust of defeat perfidy

Was as fine as it is now

In the skies of untouchable dust

And Klings of the rooftop

Church variety—

My moity

Auro Boralis Shomoheen

In the ancient blue Buick

Machine that cankers the highway

With Alice fat Queens, cards

Indexes burning, mapping machines,

Partings sweet sorrow

But O my patine

O my patinat pinkplat Mexican

Canvas for oil in boil

Marrico—hash marsh m draw

The greenhouse bong eater from

fence N'awrleans, that—

Bat and be ready, Jesus is steady,

Score's eight to one, none,

Bone was the batter for McGoy

Poy—

Used as this ditties

for mopping the kitties

in dream's afternoon

when nap was a drape

“Jamac! Jamac!

De bambi de bambi

Jamac jamac!”

And elegant old quorums

of fortified priests

sighed

De bambi de bambi jamac

Jamac, and eldertwine

old tweedies fighted the prize

“Parrac! Motak!

Pastamak arrac!

Arrash!

Crrash!”

Part art tee

tea symphony

ceremonious old bonious

me love you

me

Henry Regalado, l'hero de la

Bataille de Patenaud

God and all the other little people

Esmack, esmack, I esmacka

You on the kisser you too

I thrun nobody oud dis joint

Since Roosevelt had all his joints

And Buddy I knowed

That old Patenaude

Was a fraude from the start,

Tonio me Kruger you that,

Hat—

Pat was the rat that had the hat

Mash patinaud

Crash toutes les shows

Grange toutes les villes

les jilles

Mange toutes les filles

The diamond that cuts through

To the other view

That I painted all white for you

I edited your rough stone,

Produced a diamond show,

Elephantine was the mine

Eglantine adamant and mad

And madly adamantine

My Allah you mine,

The diamond of Dipankar

The prime ripe wreak havoc

Buddha pra-teeth torn

Mouth Ya-Hoi-Ya-Hai

Pastumintapaling porpitoi

Turnpot of biled pata taters

Smater Gater the Mater

O'Shay, rife was the weather

Was singin was gay,

Rape were the weathers

In heaven's O Shay

Old buddy aint you gonna stay by me?

Didnt we say I'd die by a lonesome tree

And you come and dont cut me down

But I'm lying as I be

Under a deathsome tree

Under a headache cross

Under a powerful boss

Under a hoss

(my kingdom for a hoss

a hoss

fork a hoss and head

for ole Mexico)

Joe, aint you my buddy thee?

And stay by me, when I fall & die

In the apricot field

And you, blue moon, what you doon

Shining in the sky

With a glass of port wine

In your eye

—Ladies, let fall your drapes

and we'll have an evening

of interesting rapes

inneresting rapes

Let fall the interesting fall

And I lie and be as I be

He stayed up in my case

for quite awhile

Tremendous pace—He was

A petty thief or he'd sell junk

One or the other

I did my best to keep him from

selling junk

French fag from Montreal

Hid the capsules up his ass

And took em out in a restaurant

On Broadway and Ninety Sixth

And I went to Eighty Sixth

Those girls hit up on me

“Man is here!”

And I bought four more caps

And the fag went home with a girl

What a beautiful shape

that woman had

Ha well dear and Ah Men

The wee girl that was comin again

She was for the books

The Ursula plea

That I could not take

O you better baike

O you better bake

A better cake than this

O you better Miss

Yes you better miss

When the thing never will kwiss

O sweetheart and okay

Here's hopin we'll all be away

It was great fun

But it was just one a

those tings

Dom dum dom domry

Dom—dom—hahem—

Sum—(creeeeee!)—Hnf—

Shh—Hnf—Shh—Haf

Shhh—Shhh—Hiffff—