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
10TH CHORUS
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
11TH CHORUS
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
12TH CHORUS
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
ORIZABA 210 BLUES
1ST CHORUS
Ah monstrous
sweet monsters,
who spawned
thee chalk?
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
2ND CHORUS
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
3RD CHORUS
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
4TH CHORUS
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
5TH CHORUS
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
&
nbsp; Clasel soul shall say:
Oido me no mo
6TH CHORUS
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
7TH CHORUS
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
8TH CHORUS
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
9TH CHORUS
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)
10TH CHORUS
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
11TH CHORUS
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
12TH CHORUS
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
13TH CHORUS
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
14TH CHORUS
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?)
15TH CHORUS
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
16TH CHORUS
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
17TH CHORUS
“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
18TH CHORUS
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