Archive for 1983

Evidence Of New York Already


08 Sep

A form of rural perfection, Avondale
Estates, Georgia, hitching a ride to meet Ginsberg,
the Big Apple gizzard, it's a scorcher, my balls sweaty,
hair down to my chin blondie, no Avondale mistakes,
no women to crack my halo or burn their bras,
hugging, sucking, tucking rugged red clay
construction sites bare to eyes without scruples,
New Worship cornerstone erections in latter days, oh thanking
nine heavens for seven elevens and the beliefs of Hippocrates,
and a beveled glass art-factory, original, vaginal, marginal cool
Georgia State Highway Patrol office, town of Avondale
protected from itself by gunpowder deterrents, thanking
God of Billions, the courtyard sports manger silver lining
flagpole, vacant of colored cloth, yet commands slaves
of the Texaco Star, guts holding down the fort,
stocks and bonds and spies, oh thanking
the Amoco Boy—our unwilted concern
while I beg to swallow cold fountain water kept
safe in your keeping—heard on the radio, the Heat God
killed eight suffering unair-conditioned zekes in the state
of the Cracker last week. Then I left the road one more
time before setting sail with my nearer to thee Life Scout thumb.
Left to get a Big Mac and dry fish sandwich. Left
me with fifteen cents and only 873 miles
to the scales of Manhattan where I hoped to share my book
of dead poems with a famous asshole named Allen.

[1983, Atlanta, GA ]

Traffic Gerund


26 May

Good evening good peoples of Single Bibliophile Universe.
Good evening to you Guildrunners who aren't.
(No Wittgenstein. You may not eat the gerund.)
Welcome.
Relax.
Take the kinks out.
Vibrate.
Dreamland asterisk marital status: comprehensive but vague.
Rest up for the holiday soon.
When you most expect it loosen your hair.
Burn off old habits.
Rock along the microwave with a New Waver.
Unfasten the refrigerator, Lux.
Throw punk rock at a dog whipping him into shapes only a cat loves.
Dust off your planted coffee-table books.
Pick them up.
Sniff them.
And demand a miracle.
Fish-pay the rent.
Let your memory bank stand in any hallway it chooses.
Consent to surpass the oracle of the Gaza Strip.
Open your monologue for staring strangers to see.
A very casual thing to do.
Dualist or donkey?
Inconveniences all queer statements must suffer.
Only if you wash me.
Designed to demolish warts and other unsightly buildings.
Please pardon this occasion of theology.
An aborted plot to dazzle you with distractions invariably most serious.
Boz is the real flaw.
The president smiling the greatest compliment allowed by law.
Given on the basis of one promise per chapter.
Brass doorknobs are selling where apples can't get past the canal.
To look at you I would say your problems are not worth it.
Irkwink yourself if there is no other art of curvature in your corner.
They took us as fools and pried us free of our questions.
Where are you in that picture?
The living eternal end.

Now that those days have passed on to their reward,
cute daffy lions bralessly stop by, convincing
me I am suggesting myself. Despite Delilah's
climax, poets are sometimes easy prey
to the desires of skin and savagery.
If you avoid the one, you catch the other.

Some of the people can be naked some of the time.
And all of the people can be naked all of the time.
But none of the people can be naked none of the time.
I see God's face in my feet. I think Yeats said that.
Babes observe their impacts. True as glass.
Lines prepare their streets. Hit the books, son.
Samson loved Delilah and long-winded facts.

There is no time left to write poems,
only slogans which are mere wordsuck
resurrecting the legends we breathe our songs for...

[ 1983, Atlanta, GA ]

Of Kings And Plural Pronouns


23 Feb

To write the epic of the world
in a few words or less
(in one word or less)
is the method
of Cameo Kidney,
an unfanned philosopher,
a basic star streaker,
a stunning safety soldier,
hiding in the cloak closet,
chaffed but unashamed
that English is the only
language which capitalizes
I while several prize
the pronoun—you.

To be born in my manger,
made affluent in three gifts
by strangers harried from afar,
is the feeling faked everywhere
in the shadow of my birthdate—
and you break out the best dishes
saying, "Your book, if as a canvas
is an ugly painting hanging in all
the wrong places."

Generations of chalk
revile the science of gestures
nicknamed virgins coax to their brow,
laughing and lampooning
Einstein's stepchildren
God was forced to allow.

To kiss them where muses lick,
begetting secrets we shower in song
(Tormenting earth for five months—
eagerly selling dark matter to the sun,
dead idol Beelzebub's a cracking
jokes at the keeper of the knots
"home of the label"
spinning report card eyes
to recall laughter understood
in the vernacular to be fatal.

To accept each hand in marriage
as a lion among the woodpiles
lost on timeshared tee-shirts
admiring the sundown of business
& extreme video conjugations
counting numbers without commas
calling names without numbers
dealing cards without names
shaving beards without cards
booking definitions

Fermi solutions with redlights
poke through.

[1983, Atlanta, GA ]

Scandanavian Jazz


04 Feb

"There are some people one loves best,
and others whom one would almost always
rather have as companions."

—Henrik Ibsen

Throw away that awful ticket stub I said. None of us
here need that can of starch. We know by heart
the meaning of fuss. Baby and the Pacifiers
are playing a gig at the Bistro to start.
Roaring inclinations.
Singsoldier.

We worked out long wars, healing our oyster eyes
with the sweaty breath of evergreen night.
That Lebanon dirt. Manic contours
agreeable to random odor,
magnificently kite.
We knew we couldn't write about
it so we danced.

The proud crystalline swans of our age,
obscuring shades,
sex and stereotype,
wars and rumors of wars,
strikes, balks, and numb nuts,
say hello every sort of way,
wrapping like a nursing maiden's delicate hands
around the seat of our desires,
our strategic pyres,
in place of inspirational jeep: glances
just aren't enough glands.

II.

              She handled
my buttocks and its karma,
so tight and competitively elite,
as I cracked the bloody march.
New Wave Morals.

Immediately I loved her, pledged
a plowboy's pitch across the pink passage
into backyard frenzies. I mulled eloquently
to myself, caught in a whim of fashion,
if I might ought caress the knotted warchest
she portrayed. Her boyfriend's face
I don't recall.

Baby, the pacifiers,
and our wormlike mirrors
responding like thoroughbred
strangers caught in the loosening moods of dawn
were mere constructions of belief.
I worried about my nature to be
direct and innocent. It drove
me to silence.

We never traded namesakes alive.
My boldness froze in cockmassacre
and toes, I twisted & smiled
acres and acres of wilted smiles
planted deeply tapping
her punk nerves sponsoring
my soaring terrain.

Her ravishionary spherical absolutes
aroused my superior being,
those victory moon bavarian breasts
(honorarium of the beasts...)
provoking the shape of things and substance,
my superior being shy,
companionless.

I danced. She rubbed her baubled paws
again along the fine tight lines my crib
drew against hocus evening shadows,
showing there can be no pretense
denying afresh the vital statistic,
no silly discourteous cocktease
stranding scalps and flirting
humor, hunger, hoary
religions that the idle
refuse to prosper.

          We easily could have
made each other blank members
of a riper version, gambling
on last night's cruise into sane
Richard Hell's visitation,
a vanity cruise highlighting
winning girls wearing nothing
but furs,
idols and onan. We became the idea
and did.

And I felt our mutual flash,
hornspun and cursive,
realizing the mediocrity
a poem of words
offers—splash—
beginning of the world
tigers and baboons
thunderbirds and the dung beetle
biting off more than a scientist
can chew,

open clash,
the meaning of her friendship ritual.

She and He
Rocking to and from
in pop style punctuated punk
continuing to
rock to and from
her unannounceable tokens
sheer succulence
well pronounced
shocking my demands on reality,
to and from, rubbing
my arm, now as important
as any zone
I could hope oversimplifyingly
would release me. Graceful
dancer bombardier
balancing virtue
and free baggage. Likelier
choices bait our laughter.
Especially in a gig
of young punk artists
rocking.

She felt herself.
Above the arms of her date.
The three of us knew the heathen pains
of fate which haunt
heaven and the pawnbroker's
pavilion. And
white hawkish sweaters
bulging through nervous nicotined
smoky husks
in the Bistro late hours.

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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