VI
PLANET NEWS: TO EUROPE AND ASIA
(1961–1963)

“Southern Cult Composite: The Staten Island Massacre” by Harry Smith, 1984.

Merry Xmas Paul carroll and irving Rose in Thrall—give up thy song & flower to any passing Millennium!

I am the One, you are the One, we are the One, A. Hitler’s One as well as fast as his Many heavenly Jews are reborn,

many a being with a nose—and many with none but an ear somewhere next to a Yelling Star—

I myself saw the sunflower-monkeys of the Moon—spending their dear play-money electricity in a homemade tape-record minute of cartoony high Sound—

goodbye Farewell repeated by Wagner Immortal in many a gladdened expanding mid-europe Hour

that I’ll be hearing forever if the world I go to’s Music, Yes good to be stuck thru Eternity on that aching Liebestod Note

which has been playing out there always for me, whoever can hear enough to write it down for a day to let men fiddle in space, blow a temporary brass tuba or wave a stick at a physical orchestra

and remember the Wagner-music in his own titty-head Consciousness—ah yes that’s the message—

That’s what I came here to compose, what I knocked off my life to Inscribe on my gray metal typewriter,

borrowed from somebody’s lover’s mother got it from Welfare, all interconnected and gracious a bunch of Murderers

as possible in this Kalpa of Hungry blood-drunkard Ghosts—We all have to eat—us Beings

gnaw bones, suck marrow, drink living white milk from heavenly Breasts or from bucktoothed negress or wolf-cow.

The sperm bodies wriggle in pools of vagina, in Yin, that reality we must have spasmed our Beings upon—

The brothers and sisters die if we live, the Myriads Invisible squeak reptile complaint

on Memory’s tail which us pterodactyl-buzzard-dove-descended two foot mammal-born Geek-souls almost Forget—

Grab—a cock—any eye—bright hair—All Memory & All Eternity now, reborn as One—

no loss to those—the Peacock spreads its cosmic-eye Magnificat-feathered tail over its forgotten Ass—

The being roars its own name in the Radio, the Bomb goes off its twenty years ago,

Who? but us all, a Me, a One, a Dying Being, The presence, now, this desk, hand running over the steps of imagination

over the letter-ladders on machine, vibrating humm-herald Extend-hope own unto Thee, returning infinite-myriad at the Heart, that is only red blood,

that is where murder is still innocence, that life ate, the white plasmic monsters forage in their fleet Macrocosm—bit apple or black huge bacteria gods loomed out of nowhere, potent

maybe once victorious on Saturn in dinosaur-inspired messy old hallucinated war—

same battle raging in tsraved cats and gahgard dogs for American ghostly bone—man and man, fairy against red, black on white on white, with teeth going to the dentist to escape in gas—

The President laughs in his Chair, and swivels his head on his neck controlling fangs of Number—

bacteria come numberless, atoms count themselves greatness in their pointy Empire—

Russian Neutrons spy on all Conspiracy—& Chinese yellow energy waves have ocean and Empyrean ready against attack & future starvation—Korean principalities of Photon are doubles in all but name—differing Wizards of Art of Electron divide as many as tribes of Congo—Africa’s a vast jail of Shadows—I am not I,

my molecules are numbered, mirrored in all Me Robot Seraphy parts, cock-creator navel-marked, Eye Seer with delicate breasts, teeth & gullet to ingest the living dove-life

foreimage of the Self-Maw Death Is Now;—but there is the Saintly Meat of the Heart—feeling to thee o Peter and all my Lords—Decades American loves car-rides and vow-sworn faces lain on my breast,—my head on many more naked than my own sad hoping flesh—

our feelings! come back to the heart—to the old blind hoping Creator home in Mercy, beating everywhere behind machine hand clothes-man Senator iron powerd or fishqueen fugitive-com’d lapel—

Here I am—Old Betty Boop whoopsing behind the skull-microphone wondering what Idiot soap opera horror show we broadcast by Mistake —full of communists and frankenstein cops and

mature capitalists running the State Department and the Daily News Editorial hypnotizing millions of legional-eyed detectives to commit mass murder on the Invisible

which is a big fat fairy monopolizing all Being that has form’d it self to Oil,

and nothing gets in its way so it grabs different oils in all poor mystic aboriginal Principalities too weak to

Screech out over the radio that Standard Oil is a bunch of spying Businessmen intent on building one Standard Oil in the whole universe like an egotistical cancer

and yell on Television to England to watch out for United Fruits they got Central America by the balls

nobody but them can talk San Salvador, they run big Guatemala puppet armies, gas Dictators, they’re the Crown of Thorns

upon the Consciousness of poor Christ-indian Central America, and the Pharisees are US Congress & Publicans is the American People

who have driven righteous bearded faithful pink new Castro 1961 is he mad? who knows—Hope for him, he stay true

& his wormy 45-year dying peasants teach Death’s beauty sugar beyond politics, build iron children schools

for alphabet molecule stars, that mystic history & giggling revolution henceforth no toothless martyrs be memorized by some pubescent Juan who’ll smoke my marihuana—

Turn the Teacher on!—Yes not conspire dollars under navy-town boardwalk, not spy vast Services of gunny Secrecy under drear eyeglass Dulles to ASSASSINATE!

INVADE! STARVE OUT! SUPPLY INVISIBLE ARMS! GIVE MONEY TO ORGANIZE DEATH FOR CUBAN REVOLUTION! BLOCKADE WHAT FRAIL MACHINERY!

MAKE EVIL PROPAGANDA OVER THE WORLD! ISOLATE THE FAITHFUL’S SOUL! TAKE ALL RICHES BACK! BE WORLDLY PRINCE AND POWER OVER THE UNBELIEVABLE! MY GOD!

AMERICA WILL BE REFUSED ETERNITY BY HER OWN MAD SON THE BOMB! MEN WORKING IN ELECTRICITY BE U.S. SADISTS THEIR MAGIC PHANOPOEIAC THRU MASS MEDIA THE NASTIEST IN THIS FIRST HISTORY!

EVIL SPELLS THRU THE DAILY NEWS! HORRIBLE MASOCHISMS THUNK UP BY THE AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION! DEATH TO JUNKIES THRU THE TREASURY DEPARTMENT! TAXES ON YOUR HATE FOR THIS HERE WAR!

Chambers of Commerce misquote Bob Hope who is a grim sex revolutionist talking in hysterical code flat awful jokes

Jimmy Durante’s kept from screaming to death in the movies by a huge fat Cardinal, the Spell Man, Black Magician he won’t let mad white Chaplin talk thru the State Megaphone! He takes evil pix with Swiss financial cunt!

It’s the American Medical Association poisoning the poets with their double-syndicate of heroin cut with money-dust,

Military psychiatrists make deathly uniforms it’s Tanganyikan nerve-skin in the submarinic navy they’re prepared for eternal solitude, once they go down they turn to Reptiles

Human dragons trained to fly the air with bomb-claws clutched to breast & wires entering their brains thru muffled ears—connected to what control tower—jacked to what secret Lab where the macrocosm-machine

picks up vibrations of my thought in this poem—the attendant is afraid—Is the President listening? is

Evil Eye, the invisible police-cop-secrecy masters Controlling Central Intelligence—do they know I took Methedrine, heroin, magic mushrooms, & lambchops & guess toward a Prophecy tonight?

No the big dopes all they do is control each other—Doom! in the vast car America—they’re screeching on two mind-wheels on a National Curve —the Car that’s made to die by Mr. Inhuman

Moneyhand, by advertising nastyhead Inc. Dream Cancer Prexy Owner Distributor Publisher & TV Doctor of Emotional Breakdown—he told that Mayor to get in that car without his pubic hair and drive to Kill get to Las Vegas so the oldfashioned jewish communists

wouldn’t get their idealistic radio program on the air in time to make everybody cry in the desert for the Indian Serpent to come

back from the Oklahoma mound where he hid with his 15,000,000 visionary original Redskin patriot-wives and warriors—they made up one big mystic serpent with its tail-a-mouth like a lost Tibet

MURDERED AND DRIVEN FROM THE EARTH BY US JEWISH GOYIM who spend fifty billion things a year—things things!—to make the things-machinery that’s turned the worlds of human consciousness into a thing of War

wherever and whoever is plugged in by real filaments or wireless or whatever magic wordy-synapse to the money-center of the mind

who own United Fruits & Standard Oil and Hearst The Press and Texas NBC and someone owns the Radios owns vast Spheres of Air—Subliminal Billionaire got

State Legislatures filled with Capital Punishment Fiends because nobody’s been in love on US soil long enough to realize We who pay the Public Hangman make State Murder thru Alien Gas who cause any form of hate-doom hanging

do that in public everybody agreed by the neck suffering utmost pangs Each citizen himself unloved suicides him, because there’s no beloved, now in America for All in the gas chamber the whole California Legislature

screaming because it’s Death here—we’re so hopeless—The Soul of America died with ugly Chessman—strange saintly average madman driven to think for his own killers, in his pants and shirt with human haircut, said NO to—like a Cosmic NO—from the One Mouth of America speaking life or death—looked in the eye by America—

Ah what a cold monster OneEye he must’ve saw thru the Star Spangled Banner & Hollywood with ugly smile forbidden movie & old heartless Ike in the White House officially allowing Chatterley attacked by Fed Lawyers—

vast Customs agencies searching books—who Advises what book where—who invented what’s dirty? The Pope? Baruch?—tender Genet burned by middleaged vice Officers

sent out by The Automatic Sourface mongers whatever bad news he can high up from imaginary Empires name Scripps-Howard—just more drear opinions—Damn that World Telegram was Glad Henry Miller’s depression Cancerbook not read to sad eyeglass Joe messenger to Grocer

in Manhattan, or candystore emperor Hersh Silverman in Bayonne, dreaming of telling the Truth, but his Karma is selling jellybeans & being kind,

The Customs police denyd him his Burroughs they defecated on de Sade, they jack’d off, and tortured his copy of Sodom with Nitric Acid in a backroom furnace house at Treasury Bureau, pouring Fire on the soul of Rochester,

Warlocks, Black magicians burning and cursing the Love-Books, Jack be damned, casting spells from the shores of America on the inland cities, lacklove-curses on our Eyes which read genital poetry—

US Postmaster, first class sexfiend his disguise told everyone to open letters stop the photographic fucks & verbal suckeries & lickings of the asshole by tongues meant but for poison glue on envelopes Report this privileged communication to Yours Truly We The National Police—We serve you once a day—you humanical meat creep-hood—

and yearly the national furnace burned much book, 2,000,000 pieces mail, one decade unread propaganda from Vietnam & Chinese mag harangues, Engelian

dialectics handmade in Gobi for proud export to top hat & tails Old Bones in his penthouse on a skyscraper in Manhattan, laconic on two phones that rang thru the nets of money over earth, as he barked his orders to Formosa for more spies, abhorred all Cuba sugar from concourse with Stately stomachs—

That’s when I began vomiting my paranoia when Old National Skullface the invisible sixheaded billionaire began brainwashing my stomach with strange feelers in the Journal American—the penis of billionaires depositing professional semen in my ear, Fulton Lewis coming with strychnine jizzum in his voice making an evil suggestion that entered my mouth

while I was sitting there gaping in wild dubiety & astound on my peaceful couch, he said to all the taxidrivers and schoolteachers in brokendown old Blakean America

that Julius and Ethel Rosenberg smelled bad & shd die, he sent to kill them with personal electricity, his power station is the spirit of generation leaving him thru his asshole by Error, that very electric entered Ethel’s eye

and his tongue is the prick of a devil he don’t even know, a magic capitalist ghosting it on the lam after the Everett Massacre—fucks a Newscaster in the mouth every time he gets on the Microphone—

and those ghost jizzums started my stomach trouble with capital punishment, Ike chose to make an Artificial Death for them poor spies—if they were spying on me? who cares?—Ike disturbed the balance of the cosmos by his stroke-head deathshake, “NO”

It was a big electrocution in every paper and mass medium, Television was a baby crawling toward that deathchamber

They used to wash them in the ’30s with Young Politics Ideas, I was too young to smell anything but my own secret mind, I didn’t even know assholes basic to Modern Democracy—What can we teach our negroes now?

That they are Negroes, that I am thy Jew & thou my white Goy & him Chinese?—They think they’re Arab Macrocosms now!

My uncle thinks his Truthcloud’s Jewish—thinks his Name is Nose-smell-Newark 5 decades—& that’s all except there’s Gentile Images of mirrory vast Universe—

and Chinese Microcosms too, a race of spade microcosms apart, like jewish truth clouds & Goyishe Nameless Vasts

But I am the Intolerant One Gasbag from the Morgue & Void, Garbler of all Conceptions that myope my eye & is Uncle Sam asleep in the Funeral Home—?

Bad magic, scram, hide in J. E. Hoover’s bathingsuit. Make his pants fall in the ocean, near Miami—

Gangster CRASH! America will be forgotten, the identity files of the FBI slipt into the void-crack, the fingerprints unwhorled—no track where He came from—

Man left no address, not even hair, just disappeared & Forgot his big wall-street on Earth—Uncle I hate the FBI it’s all a big dreamy skyscraper somewhere over the Mutual Network—I don’t even know who they are—like the Nameless—

Hallooo I am coming end of my Presidency—Everybody’s fired—I am a hopeless whitehaired congressman—I lost my last election—landslide for Reader’s Digest—not even humans—

Nobody home in town—just offices with many jangling telephones & automatic switchboards keep the message—typewriters return yr calls oft, Yakkata yak & tinbellring—THE POLICE ARE AT THE DOOR—

What are you doing eccentric in this solitary office? a mad vagrant Creep Truthcloud sans identity card—It’s Paterson allright—anyway the people disappeared—downtown Fabian Bldg. branch office for The Chamber of Commerce runs the streetlights

all thru dark winter rain by univac piped from Washington Lobby—they’ve abolished the streets from the universe—just keep control of

Goodbye, said the metal Announcer in doors of The Chamber of Commerce —we’re merging with NAM forever—and the NAM has no door but’s sealed copper 10 foot vault under the Federal Reserve Bldg—

Six billionaires that control America are playing Scrabble with antique Tarot —they’ve just unearthed another Pyramid—in the bombproof Cellar at Fort Knox

Not even the FBI knows who—They give orders to J. E. Hoover thru the metal phonegirl at the Robot Transmitter on top of RCA—you

can see new Fortune officers look like spies from 20 floors below with their eyeglasses & gold skulls—silver teeth flashing up the shit-mouthed grin—weeping in their martinis! There is no secret to the success of the

Six Billionaires that own all Time since the Gnostic Revolt in Aegypto—they built the Sphinx to confuse my sex life, Who Fuckd the Void?

Why are they starting that war all over again in Laos over Neutral Mind? Is the United States CIA army Legions overthrowing somebody like Angelica Balabanoff?

Six thousand movietheaters, 100,000,000 television sets, a billion radios, wires and wireless crisscrossing hemispheres, semaphore lights and morse, all telephones ringing at once connect every mind by its ears to one vast consciousness This Time Apocalypse—everybody waiting for one mind to break thru—

Man-prophet with two eyes Dare all creation with his dying tongue & say I AM—Messiah swallow back his death into his stomach, gaze thru great pupils of his Bodies’ eyes

and look in each Eye man, the eyeglassed fearful byriad-look that might be Godeyes see thru Death—that now are clark & ego reading manlaw —write newsbroadcasts to cover with Fears their

own Messiah that must come when all of us conscious—Breakthru to all other Consciousness to say the Word I Am as spoken by a certain God—Millennia knew and waited till this one Century—

Now all sentience broods and listens—contemplative & hair full of rain for 15 years inside New York—what millions know and hark to hear, & death will tell, but—

many strange magicians in buildings listening inside their own heads—or clouds over Manhattan Bridge—or strained thru music messages to —I Am from the central One! Come

I Am mutter a million old Gods in their beards, that had been sleeping at evening radios—cackling in their Larynx—Talking to myself again

said the Messiah turning a dial to remember his last broadcast—I scare myself, I eat my hand, I swallow my own head, I stink in the inevitable bathroom of death this Being requires—O Widen the Area of Consciousness! O

set my Throne in Space, I rise to sit in the midst of the Starry Visible!—Calling All Beings! in dirt from the ant to the most frightened Prophet that ever clomb tower to vision planets

crowded in one vast space ship toward Andromeda—That all lone soul in Iowa or Hark-land join the Lone, set forth, walk naked like a Hebrew king, enter the human cities and speak free,

at last the Man-God come that hears all Phantasy behind the matter-babble in his ear, and walks out of his Cosmic Dream into the cosmic street

open mouth to the First Consciousness—God’s woke up now, you Seraphim, call men with trumpet microphone & telegraph, hail every sleepwalker with Holy Name,

Life is waving, the cosmos is sending a message to itself, its image is reproduced endlessly over TV

over the radio the babble of Hitler’s and Claudette Colbert’s voices got mixed up in the bathroom radiator

Hello hello are you the Telephone the Operator’s singing we are the daughters of the universe

get everybody on the line at once plug in all being ears by laudspeaker, newspeak, secret message,

handwritten electronic impulse traveling along rays electric spiderweb

magnetisms shuddering on one note We We We, mustached disc jockeys trembling in mantric excitement, flowery patterns bursting over the broken couch,

drapes falling to the floor in St. John Perse’s penthouse, Portugal’s water is running in all the faucets on the SS Santa Maria,

chopping machines descend on the pre-dawn tabloid, the wire services are hysterical and send too much message,

they’re waiting to bam out the Armageddon, millions of rats reported in China, smoke billows out New York’s hospital furnace smokestack,

I am writing millions of letters a year, I correspond with hopeful messengers in Detroit, I am taking drugs

there is a mutation of the race, we are no longer human beings, we are one being, we are being connected to itself,

it makes me crosseyed to think how, the mass media assemble themselves like congolese Ants for a purpose

in the massive clay mound an undiscovered huge Queen is born, Africa wakes to redeem the old Cosmos,

I am masturbating in my bed, I dreamed a new Stranger touched my heart with his eye,

he hides in a sidestreet loft in Hoboken, the heavens have covered East Second Street with Snow,

all day I walk in the wilderness over white carpets of City, we are redeeming ourself, I am born,

the Messiah woke in the Universe, I announce the New Nation, in every mind, take power over the dead creation,

I am naked in New York, a star breaks thru the blue skull of the sky out the window,

I seize the tablets of the Law, the spectral Buddha and the spectral Christ turn to a stick of shit in the void, a fearful Idea,

I take the crown of the Idea and place it on my head, and sit a King beside the reptile Devas of my Karma—

Eye in every forehead sleeping waxy & the light gone inward—to dream of fearful Jaweh or the Atom Bomb—

All these eternal spirits to be wakened, all these bodies touched and healed, all these lacklove

suffering the Hate, dumbed under rainbows of Creation, O Man the means of Heaven are at hand, thy rocks & my rocks are nothing,

the identity of the Moon is the identity of the flower-thief, I and the Police are one in revolutionary Numbness!

Yawk, Mercy The Octopus, it’s IT cometh over the Void & makes whistle its lonemouthed Flute You-me forever—

Stop Arguing, Cosmos, I give up so I be, I receive a happy letter from Ray Bremser exiled from home in New Jersey jail—

Clocks are abuilding for a thousand years, ticking behind metalloidesque

electronico-clankered industries smokeless in silent mind city—

Dawn of the Ages! Man thy Alarm rings thru sweet myriad mornings in every desperate-carred street! Saints wait in each metropolis

for Message to Assassinate the old idea, that 20,000 yr old eye-god Man thought was Being Secret mystery,

Octopus Death, with supernatural antennae spikes raying Awful waves at my consciousness, huge blind Ball invisible behind the rooms in the universe—a not-a-man—a no-one—Nobodaddy—

Omnipotent Telepath more visionary than my own Prophetics & Memories —Reptile-sentient shimmer-feel-hole Here,

Dense Soullessness wiser than Time, the Eater-Darkness hungry for All—but must wait till I leave my body to enter that

One Mind nebula to my recollection—Implacable, my soul dared not die,

Shrank back from the leprous door-mind in its breast, touch Him and the hand’s destroyed,

Death God in the End, before the Timeworld of creation—I mean some kind of monster from another dimension is eating Beings of our own Cosmos—

I saw him try to make me leave my corpse-illusion Allen, myth movie world come to celluloid-end,

I screamed seeing myself in reels of death my consciousness a cinematic toy played once in faded attick by man-already-forgotten

His orphan starhood inked from Space, the movie industry itself blot up its History & all wracked myriad Epics, Space wiped itself out,

lost in a wall-crack dream itself had once disappearing—maybe trailing endless comet-long trackless thru what unwonted dimensions it keeps dreaming existence can die inside of—vanish this Cosmos of Stars I am turning to bones in—

That much illusion, and what’s visions but visions, and these words filled Methedrine—I have a backache & 2 telegrams come midnight from messengers that cry to plug in the Electrode Ear to

my skull downstreet, & hear what they got to say, big lives like trees of Cancer in Bronx & Long Island—Telephones connect the voids island blissy darkness scattered in many manmind—

New York, February 1961

New York, April 12, 1961

Top hand bearing the Telephone nobody’s on the other end she’s talking to herself

because when the ear gets disconnected from the brain you still hear noise

but who remembers what it means somebody else will pay the bill as fast as it takes

for vultures to clean up a corpse at Tower of Silence That will be five minutes and

extra charges if you go on talking the eleventh hand presenting an electric chair

twelfth hand in the mudra of Foreign Aid and thirteenth palm closed in sign of Disarmament

O Freedom with gaping mouth full of Cops whose throat is adorned with skulls of Rosenbergs

whose breasts spurt Jazz into the robot faces of thy worshippers grant that recitation

of this Hymn will bring them abiding protection money & dance in White House

for even a dope sees Eternity who meditates on thee raimented with Space crosseyed

creatrix of Modernity whose waist is beauteous with a belt of numberless Indian scalps

mixed with negro teeth Who on the breast of James Dean in the vast bedroom of Forest Lawn

Cemetery enjoyest the great Passion of Jesus Christ or seated on the bone-yard ground

strewn with the flesh of Lumumba haunted by the female shoes of Khrushchev & Stevenson’s long red tongue

enjoyest the worship of spies & endless devotions intoned by mustached radio announcers

If by night thy devotee naked with long weird hair sit in the park & recite this Hymn

while his full breasted girl fills his lap with provincial kisses and meditates on Thee

Such such a one dwells in the land the supreme politician & knows Thy mystery

O Wife of China should thy patriot recite thy anthem & China’s cut-up & mixed together

with that of Russia Thy elephant-headed infant mighty in all future worlds

& meditate one year with knowledge of thy mystic copulation with China this next age

Home of the Brave thou gavest birth to the Steel Age before the Hydrogen Age the

Cobalt Age earning power over entire planets all futurity Male-female spouse of the solar system

Ah me why then shall I not prophesy glorious truths for Thee Ah me folks worship many other

countries beside you they are brainwashed but I of my own uncontrollable lust for you

lay my hands on your Independence enter your very Constitution my head absorbed in the lips of your

Bill of Rights O Liberty whose bliss is union with each individual citizen intercourse

Alaskan Oklahoman New Jerseyesque dreaming of embraces even Indonesian Vietnamese & those Congolese

O Liberty Imagewife of Mankind of thy Mercy show thy favor toward each me everywhere helpless

before thy manifest Destiny by grace may I never be reborn American I and all I’s

neither Russian Peruvian nor Chinese Jew never again reincarnate outside Thee Mother

Democracy O Formless One take me beyond Images & reproductions spouse beyond disunion

absorbed in my own non-Duality which art Thou.

He O mother American Democracy who in the cremation ground of nations with disheveled hair in sweat of intensity meditates on thee

And makes over his pubic hair to thee in poetry or electrical engineering he alone knows thy Cosmic You-Me.

O America whoever on Tuesday at midnite utters This My Country ’Tis of Thee in the basement men’s room

of the Empire State Building becomes a Poet Lord of Earth and goes mounted on Elephants

to conquer Maya the Cold War whoever recites this my country ’tis of thee with the least halfhearted

conviction he becomes himself Big Business & Giant Unions flowing with production and is after

death father of his country which is the Universe itself and will at night in union with Thee

O mother with eyes of delightful movies enter at last into amorous play united with all Presidents of US.

Bombay, 1962

Because a dog barked at a madman with dirty wild black hair who rag round his midriff & water pot in hand

Stopped in midstreet turned round & gazed up at the balconies, windows, shops and city stagery filled with glum activity

Shrugged & said Jai Shankar! to the imaginary audience of Me’s,

While a white robed Baul Singer carrying his one stringed dried pumpkin Guitar

Sat down near the cigarette stand and surveyed his new scene, just arrived in the Holy City of Benares.

Benares, February 1963

*

My thirst in my cheeks and tongue
     back throat drives me home.

Benares, April 18, 1963

May 22, 1963

across the street / thru the grocerystore / in the wood alley / out in the open on the corner /

Because I lied to the Dentist about that chickencoop roofing / slate stolen off his garage

by me and the boy I loved who would punish me if he knew

what I loved him.

That now I have had that boy back in another blond form

Peter Orlovsky a Chinese teenager in Bangkok ten years twenty years

Joe Army on the campus / white blond loins / my mouth hath kisses /

full of his cock / my ass burning / full of his cock

all that I do desire. In dream and awake

this handsome body mine / answered

all I desired / intimate loves / open eyed / revealed at last / clothes on the floor

Underwear the most revealing stripped off below the belly button in bed.

That’s that / yes yes / the flat cocks the red pricks the gentle pubic hair / alone with me

my magic spell. My power / what I desire alone / what after thirty years /

I got forever / after thirty years / satisfied enough with Peter / with all I wanted /

with many men I knew one generation / our sperm passing

into our mouths and bellies / beautiful when love / given.

Now the dream oldens / I olden / my hair a year long / my thirtyeight birthday approaching.

I dream I

am bald / am disappearing / the campus unrecognizable / Haledon Avenue

will be covered with neon / motels / Supermarkets / iron

the porches and woods changed when I go back / to see Earl again

He’ll be a bald / fleshy father / I could pursue him further in the garage

If there’s still a garage on the hill / on the planet / when I get back. From Asia.

If I could even remember his name or his face / or find him /

When I was ten / perhaps he exists in some form.

With a belly and a belt and an auto

Whatever his last name / I never knew / in the phonebook / the Akashic records.

I’ll write my Inspiration for all Mankind to remember,

My Idea, the secret cave / in the clothes closet / that house probably down /

Nothing to go back to / everything’s gone / only my idea

that’s disappearing / even in dreams / gray dust piles / instant annihilation

of World War II and all its stainless steel shining-mouthed cannons

and go on kissing in dream and out on the street / as if it were for ever.

No forever left! Even my oldest forever gone, in Bangkok, in Benares,

swept up with words and bodies / all into the brown Ganges /

passing the burning grounds and / into the police state.

My mind, my mind / you had six feet of Earth to hoe /

Why didn’t you remember and plant the seed of Law and gather the sprouts of What?

the golden blossoms of what idea? If I dream that I dream /what dream

should I dream next? Motorcycle rickshaws / parting lamp shine / little taxis / horses’ hoofs

     Angkor—on top of the terrace
in a stone nook in the rain
Avalokitesvara faces everywhere
   high in their stoniness
         in white rainmist

   Slithering hitherward paranoia
      Banyans trailing
      high muscled tree crawled
     over the roof its big
     long snaky toes spread
      down the lintel’s red
         cradle-root
         elephantine bigness

      Buddha I take my refuge
   bowing in the black bower
   before the openhanded lotus-man
         sat crosslegged
   and riding in the rain in the
         anxious motorcycle putting
         in the wetness my shirt
         covered with green plastic
            apron shivering
               and throat choking
                  with upsurge
                  of stroke fear
                     cancer Bubonic
                     heart failure
                  bitter stomach juices
         a wart growing on my rib
         Objection! This can’t be
                     Me!

b
a
n
a
n
a to finish the bill on the table

pink
p
o
n
k of the rain on the roof tin
below my shuttered window
   in the neon light a Hotel
      clean tiled room

All well in this solitude, plenty money
for a long ride thru the forest in a
         rainy afternoon with
            long hair wet beard
         glasses clouding—and that
         nausea—passing out
      of the Churning of the Ocean

         asuras with teeth fangs
            and fat eared Devas
            with military mustaches

         hanging on to the great Chain Snake
            muscle sandstone railing
            length of the moat-bridge to
the South Gate, Avalokitesvara’s huge
         many faces in opposite directions
               in high space
         thru which ran new black road
         at the knees of greater trees, one

needed a haircut, root-hair sprouting
   on branches—thru the forested
   Castle grounds to pathways fallen
      sandstone headless statues
   Damp black bas-relief Dancing Shiva
            or angel lady

   with the cricket-glare and parrot
         squads walking across the roof
—last nite full moon in misted heaven
and slow girl dance bent elbow and inspring
   fingers snaking it thru the middle—

      I am afraid where I am
   “I am inert” … “I’m just doing my
      Professional duty” … “I’m scheming
      murders” … “I’m chasing a story”
I’m not going to eat meat anymore
I’m taking refuge in the Buddha Dharma Sangha
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama
Rama Rama Hare Hare

who how satisfying in the ocean night
   as the exit of laughing gas,
   or the thrice-real moment of hashish
  or the “ordering men about, playing god,
            without drugs”

You have no right being a Hitler repeating that
      Abhaya mudra reassurance
         Palm out flat, patting the airhide
               of earth—

   Nothing but a false Buddha afraid of
         my own annihilation, Leroi Moi—
   afraid to fail you yet terror those Men
         their tiger pictures and uniforms
            dream to see that Kerouac tiger too—
      Helikopter to— Sh, spies with telescopes
            for seeing the bullets that shoot—

Leroi I been done you wrong
I’m just an old Uncle Tom in disguise all along
               afraid of physical tanks.
      and those buzzing headphones in my skull.
   and many a butterfly committed suicide
         its wings to the motheaten flame—
Agh! I vomited in fear of the forest of ganja meats—
Eternal Death silliness—Cowards die many times
Not even afraid to be a Coward—Ashamed only by
      metal voices declaring war on Darkness

I seen plenty corpses but not them living wound-flowers
         healing split open “mouths” as you see the
         War Correspondent who wanted to Bash China
Even I wound up with his Titoist anxieties

Plus ça change tonight from 6 P.M.
      wet handed by meat sex
drank tea, drank carrot-potato thin soup
      bread cheese coffee peas pies coffee
      pineapple soda
walked on the rainy. run out of ink
            market
To write a letter to President Norodom Sihanouk
      to live in the flower-jazz palace at Phnom Penh
      Kingly neutrality enter China for U.P
            from Hong Kong
      write to Eisenhower, politely inquiring
         get China off the hook
         war of races not Marxism in

Viet Nam Pres. Diem’s Queer picture
         —a spy in the chinese soup
         on the restaurant bench—I being also a
            spy for the Left Consuling

      “Geez that’s a great job yr doing fellers
            keep it up”

Monsoon riding thru the forest gate faces
Creepers silence on Ta-Phrom temple halls
      narrow stone walk under sleeping trees—
         rain on Ta-Keo pyramid—perfect faces
         smiling ladies’ fiery headdresses in Thommanom
      till passing the soda stand in forest arbor
         ganja cigarette rolled in Terrasse Supérieur
               rooftower by Ikon
         of Buddha touching Earth
         the burnt out incense sticks in the tipped can
               I straightened and shoes off bowed

As I rode thru the forest Hari Hindoo and Lord of Mercy
               struggled like Asur-Devas
            with my mind-snake drifting
         motorized under the trees—that
   long road with a dip and slow strange
      rise into the arch of the four-headed
         Smile—gate to the old park
         of Khmer palaces—ancient morphine
in a room—Garuda bebeaked and wing-sphinxed—

The many Sphinx-heads with ears on the towers
Looking around the country seventeen, cheek on eye,
Bewildered in a hurry in the rain to make
   this City conquered by Chams (upriver
   burning the wooden city) of
                  Stone to last in forest
   Even that permanence warped cleaned
         in the Alice in Wonderland giant garden
         of Ta-Phrom—followed

And I’m following them naked to the waist
      chinese smooth limbed workmen or darker
      Cambodian cyclist Prisoners cutting the grass
      by the Grand Hotel’s

cool waiting room with bar and USIS handout
      news-casts only Journals except
      for the State Paper reprinting the Prince
            King’s questionless speech to
         Journalists itching with neon—

So many grounds to cover the terrors of the day
All got to do with snakes and only one shy
   tail, I saw disappearing behind a
   rock, slow banded worm—the smiles
of Avalokitesvara with his big mouth like
      Cambodian Pork Chops—the boys
and why do I not even faintly desire those
      black silk girls in the alley of this
            clean new tourist city?—
Ah those Deva faces on the walls of Thommanom!
         Clean eyebrows and smiles of Lady Yore
Ever Naomi in my ear—a sad case of refusing to
         grow up give birth to die—

I am Coward in every direction—Coughing
      in the motorcycle trailer seat but
      the beautiful forest hath its rain to
            drown my noises—

      or will a clang of bells herald the God Creeley
To whom I sent postcards of the cold stonebrows—
      in the green—on the spot

“Blind white mossed gray carved
blocks of stone noses smiling
thin lips
         green mossy fronds of giant
trees, the white drift smoke
sky
      The millions of familiar
raindrops dripping in
floor rock crevasses
         on the broken crown of the
gray lotus
         The stone benches on the roof
Snake balustrades
         Buddha’s faces on the
many towers, the forest snakes
waiting in the tall trunks of
         wooden trees
Oh the beautiful pour of the rain noises
waiting below the money cyclopede
Motor driver covered with blue plastic
            Angkor
where I dreamed of trembling to
write—here again after the
hot sun, sleeping and dreaming
2 days ago—back in the wished
for rain past
      rain on my elbows

As might be read for poesy by Olson
At least moves from perception to obsession
      according to waves of Me-ness
   Still clinging to the Earthen straw
            My eye

      Confused with this blue sky cloud drift
            “illusion” over the treetops

      dwelling in my mind “frightened aging nagging flesh”
      To step out of—? Who, Me?

Just a lot of words and propaganda
      I been spreading getting scared
      of my own bullshit
Except when faced with my confusion
      words meat / death
            mind-soup
      eaten last night, greedily fried macaroni
         with rare beef—all the children
         scream at my long awkward hair,

      Nandi the bull waiting her owner in the Sun
            The house crumbling and Vishnu’s arms
               broken, heads off the seated
                     statues
            bat families hanging upside down in the
               door beams’ cracks—Chinese families

overrunning the earth like greeneyed children of
         Science-fiction—Shall I blow
         them up, Professor?—and

O Leaf of Buddha! when we get to
   the green planets will we fight
   the strange snaky races of—
         Cancer Overpopulation
It’s a pyramid of faces—Sphinx-Avalokitesvara
all mixed up, I hope Buddha’s been there,
Then we’ll know if his mind appeared
            in all the directions of Space—

The Pope died a saint to be dissolved in
            his Christ
Philip Lamantia prophesied truly, all but
      Mao Tze Tung loved Pope John

Crost the big traffic circle between the Shell
         gas signs, where at nite the troop
         Cops got in buses to go to Hué
            Where telephones spoke blisters
            to the gas students—
         gathered in front of City Hall to redress
            their grievances—

Surabaya Johnnie not seen Bodrabadur Temple
   in Java next time round this part
      of the world

jumped in the cab suddenly, afraid
after left Xaloi temple like a
   Negro disintegrated in New Orleans,
afraid to publish that or they bomb
      my typesetter’s woodsy Balcony
            in Louisiana—

Everywhere it’s the fear I got in my own
      intestines—Kenyatta Prime Minister
      peacefully with his fly-whisk

         and maybe the Mo Mo’s underground
Mao-Mao—everywhere is my own Rhodesia
for Mysterious Choose Up Sides and Die
         like a “Man”

I never wanted to be a “human” being and
this is what I got—a himalayan
striped umbrella I don’t use
in the jungle rain—my eyes
      Lid-heavy—my mind skips
back to the overweight knapsack I carry
all these years’ scribbles bound in
Ganges towels—
               Down, to drink
      Iced coffee with sweet evaporated milk
      Chinese coffee in small glasses, but
   Manger les Tripes No No—not eat
      that mouthful of snake-apple

               reassurance from Buddha’s
               two arms, palms out
                  stept up to 13th Century
                     Sukothai feminacy
                        step forward—

Buddha footprint repetition

So much pork they’ll make a butcher shop
   restaurant of the whole white folks universe
   which should be owned by Negroes but is
      really haircut like Jews or
         Indian Mounties in
            Northern Canada
They been “throwing up radioactive dolphins
      in their icy bays—”?
There was a great ice-floe up north I
      saw holes in the sea crust, weir
      cold green brine slurping up, or mist
      on my fingernail—

I sat in a hammock and waited—a
      big hole appeared in the English
                  Channel
   To let the human beings thru, hordes
     from Italy into White Anglia
   England achange—Stonehenge who
   went back that far to worship the
                     Sun?

Lady Mort’s wormy intestines,
always passed the basement in the Louvre
with that Knight-at-Arms on a stone
   black table carried by hooded monks
      big as huge children getting
         stoned, tired—

   Coughing in the airplane and my ears hurt
      a headache on the local slow
         airboat—over the great
         water, carrying the 10 tiny
            Buddhas of the negligent
            Mahant of Bodh Gaya—

      Jumping in and out of space—soon
faster than light I’ll go back to the
Graham Avenue past, and stare out the
      window happily at Paul R——
      passing down the 1942 Broadway—
   the gothic church, the alleys and
      Synagogues of Mea Shearim,

Jerusalem’s hated Walls—
I couldn’t get over to the Holy Side and weep
            where I was supposed to by History
            Laws got confused stamped
         in my passport, lost in the refugee
            Station at Calcutta. It
winds in and out of space and time the
         physical traveler—
Returning home at last, years later as
         prophesied, “Is this the way that
            I’m supposed to feel?”

Moils of New Frisco San York Orleans
   Castro Bomb Shade Protest Shelter
Better write a letter warning against
   the
      Aswan Nile not seen
      Peking’s Jewelry feet not Come true
Surely I’ll live to take tea in a back yard
      in Kyoto and be calm!

“Make me ready—but not yet”
No I am not “ready” to die when that Choke
comes I’m afraid I’ll scream and
         embarrass everybody—go out
like a coward yellow fear I done left no
         Louis babies behind me Rebuke in
         Those 70 year eyes and I speak of Murder
            blessing him?—Alas
to be kinder except I was kind to the
         Man on park bench after the Nite Club

            who “schemed murders” as an
               analyst for air forces.
They need conscience-stricken analysts, I’m
      a conscious-stricken panelist on this
      university show.
               Forward March, guessing
      which bullet which airplane which nausea
      be the dreadful doomy last
            begun while I’m still
conscious—I’ll go down and get a cold coffee at
                     Midnight

Siemréap, Cambodia, June 10, 1963

II

Shit! Intestines boiling in sand fire
   creep yellow brain cold sweat
   earth unbalanced vomit thru
   tears, snot ganglia buzzing
   the Electric Snake rising hypnotic
   shuffling metal-eyed coils
   whirling rings within wheels
   from asshole up the spine
   Acid in the throat the chest
   a knot trembling Swallow back
the black furry ball of the great
   Fear

Oh!

The serpent in my bed pitiful
   crawling unwanted babes of
   snake covered with veins and pores
   breathing heavy frightened love
   metallic Bethlehem out the window
   the lost, the lost hungry
   ghosts here alive trapped
   in carpet rooms How can I
   be sent to Hell
   with my skin and blood

Oh I remember myself so

Oh how wounded, how wounded, I
   murder the beautiful chinese women

It will come on the railroad, beneath
   the wheels, in drunken hate screaming
   thru the skinny machine gun, it will
   come out of the mouth of the pilot
   the dry lipped diplomat, the hairy
   teacher will come out of me
   again shitting the meat out of
   my ears on my cancer deathbed
   Oh crying man crying woman

crying guerrilla shopkeeper
   crying dysentery boneface on
   the urinal street of the Self
   Oh Negro beaten in the eye in my
   home, oh black magicians
   in white skin robes boiling the
   stomachs of your children that
   you do not die but shudder in
   Serpent & worm shape forever
   Powerful minds & superhuman
   Roar of volcano & rocket in
   Your bowels—

Hail to your fierce desire, your
   Godly pride, my Heaven’s gate
   will not be closed until
   we enter all—

All which was rejected, the
   leper-sexed hungry of
   nazi conventions, hollow
   cheeked arab marxists of Acco
   Crusaders dying of starvation
   in the Holy Land—

Seeking the Great Spirit of the
   Universe in Terrible Godly
   form, O suffering Jews
   burned in the hopeless fire
   O thin Bengali sadhus adoring
   Kali mother hung with
   nightmare skulls O Myself
   under her pounding
   feet!

Yes I am that worm soul under
   the heel of the daemon horses
   I am that man trembling to die
   in vomit & trance in bamboo
   eternities belly ripped by
   red hands of courteous
   chinamen kids—Come sweetly
   now back to my Self as I was—

Allen Ginsberg says this: I am
   a mass of sores and worms
   & baldness & belly & smell
   I am false Name the prey
   of Yamantaka Devourer of
   Strange dreams, the prey of
   radiation & Police Hells of Law

Who would deny his own shape’s
   loveliness in his
   dream moment of bed
   Who sees his desire to be
   horrible instead of Him

Who is, who cringes, perishes,
   is reborn a red Screaming
   baby? Who cringes before
   that meaty shape in
         Fear?

In this dream I am the Dreamer
   and the Dreamed I am
   that I am Ah but I have
   always known

oooh for the hate I have spent
   in denying my image & cursing
   the breasts of illusion—
   Screaming at murderers, trembling
   between their legs in fear of the
   steel pistols of my mortality—

Come, sweet lonely Spirit, back
   to your bodies, come great God
   back to your only image, come
   to your many eyes & breasts,
   come thru thought and
   motion up all your
   arms the great gesture of
   Peace & acceptance Abhaya
   Mudra Mudra of fearlessness
   Mudra of Elephant Calmed &
   war-fear ended forever!

Chinese American Bardo Thodols
   all the seventy hundred hells from
   Orleans to Algeria tremble
   with tender soldiers weeping

In Russia the young poets rise
   to kiss the soul of the revolution
   in Vietnam the body is burned
   to show the truth of only the
   body in Kremlin & White House
   the schemers draw back
   weeping from their schemes—

In my train seat I renounce
   my power, so that I do
   live I will die

Over for now the Vomit, cut
   up & pincers in the skull,
   fear of bones, grasp
   against man woman & babe.

Let the dragon of Death
   come forth from his
   picture in the whirling
   white clouds’ darkness

And suck dream brains &
   claim these lambs for his
   meat, and let him feed
   and be other than I

Till my turn comes and I
   enter that maw and change
   to a blind rock covered
   with misty ferns that
   I am not all now

My own Identity now nameless
   neither man nor dragon or
   God

but the dreaming Me full
   of physical rays’ tender
   red moons in my belly &
   Stars in my eyes circling

And the Sun the Sun the
   Sun my visible father
   making my body visible
   thru my eyes!

Tokyo, July 18, 1963