Book of Blues (9 page)

comes platooning up in mudsplash,

Monty, examining every commando

standing naked in the rain,

‘That hurt?' whacking

a guy on the rib, ‘No

sir,' ‘Why not?'

‘Commando, sir'

Finally he comes to a man

with a long hardon, & whacks

it with his military crop

—with his baton—

‘That hurt?' ‘No sir'

“Why not?”

“Man behind me sir.”

The star is reflected in the puddle

and the star dont care

and the puddle dont care

Nothing is thinking

not even the puddle poet

That's why “This Thinking Has Stopped”

Is the best way I know to imitate

this starry state of affairs

in puddles

Plass! plash!—wait a minute!—

wait a second buddy while I

hock up old Desroches three

sacrifices

For each sacrifice you're reborn

and you're only reborn once

because there is only One

Sin

Slatter me pet Charley, T-rod,

pettle pole and all, believes,

and goes rosing in the woods

Purt! Foley! Words! Names!

Ahab, Starbuck & Pip

Iago and Poltroon

and Pipestaff the Ribber

—pain, pain, the no-name retoin

On the street I seen three guys

standing talking quietly in the sun

and suddenly one guy leaps in pain

and whacks his fingers in the air

as he's burned his hand

with a match

lighting a butt

The other two guys dont even

know this,

they go right on talking

gesticulating with hands

I seen it, it was on San Jose

Boulevard in St Joseph

Missouri, nineteen thirty

two

Them guys didnt even realize

pain is one thing, everywhere?

Whai? Every golden

sweetgirl come & befawdle

her pillow in my hair

and I dont care?

Wha?

JEWISH GOY IN N.Y.

Wha? Whaddayou mean,

there are ten thousands mysteries

of me by the millions standing

with hand-molded shows

and sports jacket

and no hair

bouncing along in one long corridor

of images in a mirror

into infinity

eternity

call it what you will!

I know that!—You dont have

pull that Buddha-stuff

on me, Jack, I dont care

I've seen me in the picture

stretched out everywhere

it dont matter?

Who cares!

I go to Lefty's & eat pastrami

on Sunday afternoon,

with mustard—I go hear

some music at Carnegie Hall

—I lay my wife—

I sit on the bed, work

Who cares? Wha?

What's the moon got?

What's the moon got but tunes?

Wha? I dont care I'll talk

I'll stand right here talk

till doomsday, nobody care,

nobody say, who knows? who

wants? What's gonna free

what from what? Shit!

Gold! Girl! Honey! Call!

What you will, call it,

shit, I'll sit, I'll talk,

I'll hang all day, because,

it doesnt matter, you talk

about it doesnt matter

but you dont realize how

doesnt-matter

it really doesnt-matters,

Wow man, I mean,

Sure, shoes, Shows, Hand

painted molds from azimuth

shoes, azipeth azipor

azinine blues, you got,

who cares, tsawright, eat,

pickles in the barrel—

—hail a cab—

do what you want

“It all goes down the same hole”

said Allen, eating cake & food

in a restaurant, with milk

in his coffee, no milk in the can,

no sense in the sour bottom

of that can

All goes up the same sky,

all sucks on same air,

all plops drops impregnates

and saves anywhere

The same limitation gentiles

the crave for a show

on notwithstanding lost bibles

dedicating the mystery

to a vain empty show,

‘Vanity of Vanities,

All is Vanity'

“Behold her breasts are like

fawns”

in the summer air,

Her eyes are like doves,

skin like the tents

—Skin like the rents

in the heavenly air

A murder stern gird

A million dollar ba by

Ack

Rowers of galleys,

Candle lights,

Hearners of yorn,

Parturient ones,

Poo,

Patch art part tea

Gart and band thee

Harden thy garkle

And get ye no purple kirtles

Ere aye mice Burns

Hands Mc Caedmon let loose

His last tired crazy pom

‘Hung la terre,

hang the twarrie,

part de twaklockleme,

gockle somackle magee'

Down with the back rooms

Of Dublin

PRAYER

God, protect me!

See that I dont defecate

on the Holy See

See that I dont

murder the bee

God! be kind!

Free all your dedicate

angels, for me

Or if not for me

for anybody

God! Hold fast!

I'm dying in your arms

delicately

Ah God be merciful

to Princeton me

Ah God, alack a God,

nobody farms

amnesty

I

There'll be no more ginger ale

for me

goodbye ginger ale

when I die

in Innisfree

That's where I'll go to die

to look and die

I'll never go there now

Because I've already told the boys

at the paper

the sound is crashing me

And they ate paper

And it was a paper party

But when the bell bonged toll,

And we all had to pay,

“Die in my arms, lamb,”

sang Rudy Vallee

from here to eternity

Die in my that's a beautiful arms,

lad,

Die in my that's a beautiful arms,

said God

To me

II

That's just something

that isnt written

in Wells' history

That's something, Window Knock,

when you can make me

pray me

That'll do the reading

in London Library

And in Dublin I is free

To read

Old Innisfree

And then I'll read Finn

Again, and meet Magee

In a back alley

And get to know

Donnelly

And the brothers Donnelly

That's where I'll be,

My Arma Carney,

I'll be dyin

down in Innisfree

Waiting for ye

Mary Carney

Le corp de la verité

pourre dans la terre

The body of truth

rots in the earth

nourriture dans la terre

Sanchez fourwinds bigtown,

dont wail that at me

Fraserville Quebec

comes back to me

In the night sun sleep

warm, store it in tanks

Blues of Old Virginia tree

moonbottles over kiss time

listener appeal

Kissland

Kissimee Florida

These are Orlanda Blues

O Cross on my wall

O body of Christ

When I was awright

Saturday night

Little in your arms

your thousands of years

In electric resist I wanted

to soul the liking I saw

—
words

(musician pauses)

This book is too nice for me

They made Clay Felker editor

of Esquire

Or Rust Hills one

and what ever happened to glass

and the joke about the Lord.

The Lord is my Agent.

My message is blah blah blah

My yort tackalitwingingly

pasta vala tt, yea, p,

my reurnent gollagigle

dil plat most-rat, my

erneealieing cralmaa

tooth, ant, mop, sh,

my devoid less 2 immensity

secret muzning midnight,

my whatzit

you wanta

know

Whatzit!

Joy Look out!

Joy look in,

look in,

the pretty

sin

Loy, t a tt ct b

I fooled with the long

overload

(wrong over road?)

wronk

What a moistious wronk

we're in fair words,

or is it wairds

in your part

of the

Kelp,

Laird

In Scotland we just throw

the bones to the dogs

& toast at the

fireplace

Well then let's have a toast

I wonder if I can write

poems just like Gregory

Croso:—let's see:—

The dead are dead,

I'll resurrect them with

this song, O fall

you fair held

cities—

(wood wood wood)

O held the fair held

in the skinny bar!

(the skinny bar held Indian sonofabitch)

So North Mood wrote:—

Colting—The Gregory

says “Eels & gripplings

in

my

eaves”

Finally I was in Stockholm at last

Cold night

Dark in Swedenborg

Zeldipeldi my junkey friend

from N.Y. and Maldo

Saldo the hot trumpeter

from Nigeria, turned on

in the cold room overlooking

black rooftops of winter,

Sweden night skies February,

Ommani pahdme horn

I wanted to catch a train

to the Capital

I was on a seacoast town,

the name of it was Fidel

or Fido

wow, mominu,

You dont know how far

that sky

go

Message from Orlanda:—

You guys cant explore

all of outer space, unless

you want to spend

a million million million

million million million

billion billion bullion

bullion years at it

—and when you gets

there, and you cant

even get there, give my

regards to Captain Bligh

And lissen, before you leave,

how bringin my money

with you to preserve

in eternity, see, I

can cash in when

I get there & spend it

on

space

travel

Thats awright, space'll carry

us maybe like little eggs,

the buggy children work

their way out

to the surface

of the egg,

to the shell,

they swim soft,

& they get there

& meet God

The Shell

The Shell

hard & cold

against the cold

gray sun

blood

in

your

Father's

Long Winter

Underwear

So sleep

Me, I'm worried I'm a secret sinner

and God

Ole Tangerine

I call Him

because one day I was settin

under trees

in

a

chair

And deciding what name

to give to God, is it

a personal God? & blam

the little tangerine

landed

squarely

on my

head

like Newton's

underwear,

& so I saw it personal

And I say the moral is simple

But it landed right on the

tippy tiptop

of the sconce,

Jazz,

dazz,

and that's why I believe

(since it's all grinning

in there)

it was a little

tap reminder

I dont
need
thunderclouds!

“Maybe Eden aint so

lonesome as New England

used to be,” said Emily

Dickinson sitting with

a tangerine in her hand

(They shipped it from Cuba)

It was a great show

Gasser!

I guess God is alright

He'll take care of us

But there are perturbing roots

in these trees,

that claw in earth

& outa fingernails

as long as Malaya

eat up thru sucktubes

the juice of the mother

Terra Firma

Mona Leisure

& these roots remind you

of the roots in your grave

I wish I could be cremated

& sprung

(to the wave),

but Ah, hell, I donno

I think I'll go to

Sapplewhile

& idle away the

unfinished poem

The evening silencius

Poetry

is so pretty

When you silence it like that

It's nice to pop pearl pages

the candlelight, you know,

is dedicated to poets

Okay—dreaming fields—Blake

wants to hear the latest development

in the man the way the bleat

lambs bleakly blake it now

and that is soft,

Ah William,

I guess as soft as Spanish

dreams, what was it Trappist

said:— “Goats

as

soft

as

sleep”

Something like that

Farewell

Jack Micheline

“Feet of children playing by

the mill”—he didnt say

hill—When tongue gets

caught inside the lapels

of the mouth, that's what

I wanta hear—Like Fred

Katz the cellist—or is

it chellist?

“Tongue crucified, seven stitched”

is pretty weird

Make it down to New Orleans

one of these days

says Moonlight Martin

“Maniac massacred” on account

of “blinded on stone”

Wow, whatze mean?

Like Wolfe's Underground, mad dog

choking in tunnels of hate

“Spring has come

yellow teeth & black hair”

is exactly like the magnificent

haiku mailed to President

Eisenhower by Manosuke

Kambe

“They have succeeded

in shooting up a star

And Spring is near”

Yeah, where down yonder

in you now Where

Now I'm getting to sound

like a drearisome

tangerine

Folks, read Jack Micheline,

n doubt about it

He's a great poeit

And see?—read Gregory Corso

too all about “bookies

& chickenpluckers”

& Read Competition Ginsberg

the maddest brain

in poetry

Ginsberg has a poet who

has a “great precise

practical benevolence

& new understanding,”

and I have Jack

Micheline, Steve Tropp,

Steve White, and

many other naked heads

What I wrote first I kept,

because I figure

God moves

the body hand

because

the body of the truth

is a body

corruptible

in graves

though

nourishing,

O Schweitzer

Africa Trumpet!

(And George Jones blows too!)

“Kneeling in the sun beside

the bright red mad beauties

of Street!” sings Corso

“I drag him into

myricolorous St Chapelle

Stained Glass marvel,”

sings Ginsberg

Dont discourage

the poets!

Sings Jack Micheline:

“And kiss the strangers

& plant the seeds of life among the dead”

Because it's a distant

hightone rail

“Flower of cities”

And these sweet lines revive

the open poetry of hope

in old America

long fish

And this sweet moth revised

the entelechy

in my endebechy

in old pardodechy

where Croo-Ba

made it working

boy girls in

He was hanged in the closet

The King ate sliced sage

John the Baptist had no head

Jesus had nails in his skin

The Neon's nailed to me

I wish I were dead

Or King of Ronald Colman

country, or Kin to Sariputra

Shakespeare, one

Well, s'long as barrel womps we'll

womp em on in, Used to write

poems about Princeton boy rose

Also Baltimore bleedings

& think rabbit plate

shit

I wish I had

a way

to make

Tuesday Sarah

come by

any day

With China throwup

hadnt Puttered

men with me

but bile was free,

& girl long blonde

taffy pull

I guess best thing to do

is to write to

Blues Bessie

I wonder what Emily's thinkin

in that groomus earth of

coral snakes & alligators

on the sidewalk, is she got down

by Sunday in the Tomb, or

does time matter no blow out

bulbs of shame, Jesus, what

shame in eyelid war life

no shame at all in eyelid

ant eat

allied ant eat

What wars Bismarck plotted

on accounta ambitious

bishops, I dont know,

what Colbert built

for Mazarin slurp,

or why French Blond

Hero bombs black

Arab dream in sand

of Berber Ya ke

Silhouette Blue men

veil, kill me, I'se

free

Jazz killed itself

But dont let poetry kill itself

Dont be afraid

of the cold night air

Dont listen to institutions

When you return manuscripts to

brownstone

dont bow & scuffle

for Edith Wharton pioneers

or ursula major nebraska prose

just hang in your own backyard

& laugh play pretty

cake trombone

& if somebody gives you beads

juju, jew, or otherwise,

sleep with em around your neck

Your dreams'll maybe better

There's no rain,

there's no me,

I'm telling ya man

sure as shit

That cat's in paradise

The noise of automobile sigh

dont interfere with the knowing

of me or any paper party

but's what smat smeldied

on hey-now, Zulch!

Truth is, cry

Because the radar never was invented

could find paradise sound

or cat lost in the night

radarless

radar-less

rad-arless

radarle-ss

 

rrrrt

branged suitcases as a kid

& sang to Glenn Miller's

Moonlight Serenade

& Laid

But O, Lord above,

have pity on my

missin kitty

Usta smear ma lips with whiskey

Fred and open up the doors

to make a joke—while

women waited

and Bert Lahr waited

playing what he waited

like Duke Ellington

used to sit staring at Seymour

who implied to me the swing

of the music by his

low crash

high abidin

shoulders,

Pap,

and what wow hoo?

Thotlatnape

Compose Vehicle

Special

Banana

Nine

Bat bow

lack Jack

swing Bing

that's right!

Yes

backwards—wail—

You're gut okay man

swing on along

I don't care

I can do it

too

Orlak + +

see

If you once

for all good

times

Man's fine,

know

YOU KNOW

My mind! even harder than

my path, my freedom

is in piano

O, wow, wild wow

NBC OOO

piano

Like Lee Konitz

sky,

Yay, wow?

Sluke!

Slow! Swing?
THEN

YOU GO
—

That new tenor cat

made me drop my pencil,

Elvin Jones

Zoot Sims

and his

Johnny Williams

“This Happy Leaping Thing”