Tuesday, May 31, 2011























music is a fair art
perhaps all art is
loss to yourself
gain to MIND
subordinate
in it
playing the beat
in concert in your time

read the wake
revealed hology
fathomless light
a book for life

but your wake brother
twist to turn
every detail
gameplay

 
in prosody















Sunday, May 29, 2011



























nudging in a shed
humans on display
roaring dark trips
out to lake norman

to cleanse yourselves
living in a  box
for two

clean the guts
insect blood
minerals
salt

the version  update
is less painful
than the truth

a tree of
knowledge
what is
good and  evil

in memoriam

 
so the No.2
swirls me in tow
100 file in
head back
under lights
near cliffs

a little milk
from the elysians
at home

disorder of the left
across the bridge
to the body in  the garden

standing  wave
of persona
from dad
to delete

may this be a golden  age
matter to mind

a legit conceit
vacuum fluctuations
ahhhh
of language
are not manipulations
of the real


growing between the spheres
























humanity on a line
fluid
little rubik songs
all versions
signing each other
flashes
until NOW

child
humanity will listen for the
cry
at the enchanted lake

live doubletime
in a  fast lane





















everything is so damn negotiable
heres five experts all smart
knowledgeable
believable enough
to keep you watching
distracted to subliminals
you know we're selling
for monkey toys
you'd get yourself
if ever needed

world famous upo
without identity
to any one
gain nothing




































Saturday, May 28, 2011











wonder of our sensitivities!
a little nook of minutia
yet from the absolute dark
from trembles on dizzy sticks
through death and change
create this show

the backyard alien
with plans














Tuesday, May 24, 2011













I shall not accept this surrender of yours nor will the Samnites regard it as valid.
Why do you not, Spurius Postumius, if you believe in the existence of gods, either cancel the whole agreement or abide by what you have pledged yourself to. The Samnite people have a right to all those whom it held in its power, or in their stead it has a right to make peace with Rome. But why do I appeal to you?

You are keeping your word as far as you can and rendering yourself as prisoner to your conqueror. I appeal to the Roman people. If they are dissatisfied with the convention of the Caudine Forks, let them place their legions once more between the passes which imprisoned them. Let there be no fraudulent dealing on either side, let the whole transaction be annulled, let them resume the arms which they delivered up at the capitulation, let them return to that camp of theirs, let them have everything that they had on the eve of their surrender.
When that is done, then let them take a bold line and vote for war, then let the convention and the peace agreed to be repudiated. Let us carry on the war with the same fortune and on the same ground which we held before any mention was made of peace; the Roman people will not then have any occasion to blame their consuls for pledges they had no right to give, nor shall we have any reason to charge the Roman people with any breach of faith.

"Will you never be at a loss for reasons why, after defeat, you should not abide by your agreements? You gave hostages to Porsena, afterwards you stole them away. You ransomed your city from the Gauls with gold, whilst they were in the act of receiving the gold they were cut down. You made peace with us on condition of our restoring your captured legions, you are now making that peace null and void.
You always cloak your dishonest dealing under some specious pretext of right and justice. Does the Roman people not approve of its legions being saved at the cost of a humiliating peace? Then let it keep its peace to itself, only let it restore to the victor its captured legions. Such action would be in accord with the dictates of honour, with the faith of treaties, with the solemn proceedings of the fetials.
But that you should secure what you stipulated for, the safety of thousands of your countrymen, whilst I am not to secure the peace which I stipulated for when I released them - is this what you Aulus Cornelius and you fetials call acting according to the law of nations?

"As to those men whom you make believe to surrender I neither accept them nor do I regard them as surrendered, nor do I hinder them from returning to their countrymen, who are bound by a convention, the violation of which brings down the wrath of all the gods whose majesty is being trifled with.

True, Spurius Postumius has just struck the herald fetial with his knee, then wage war! Of course the gods will believe that Postumius is a Samnite citizen not a Roman, and that it is by a Samnite citizen that a Roman herald has been maltreated, and that for that reason you are justified in making war upon us.
It is sad to think that you feel no shame in exposing this mockery of religion to the light of day, and that old men of consular rank should invent excuses for breaking their word which even children would think beneath them. Go, lictor, remove the bonds from the Romans, let none of them be hindered from departing where they please."

Thus set free they returned to the Roman camp, their personal obligations and possibly those of the State having been discharged.

 titus livius    26 bce

Sunday, May 22, 2011

palacio longoria






















































the candidate for prez
shouted to the drunk crowd
I welcome altered states!
I welcome all alterations!
We need to get evolution
rolling again!
again!
past these power elites
(drains glass)
we see from history
past civilations
like athens
lowered it down
with these mysteries
Get Comfortable with it folks!
We can't go at 25 if were doing 70 now
the limit a cliff is in view
act as an organism
with species identity

 The four boards of the coffin lid
Heard all the dead man did.

The first curse was in his mouth,
Made of grave's mould and deadly drouth.

The next curse was in his head,
Made of God's work discomfited.

The next curse was in his hands,
Made out of two grave-bands.

The next curse was in his feet,
Made out of a grave-sheet.

"I had fair coins red and white,
And my name was as great light;

I had fair clothes green and red,
And strong gold bound round my head.

But no meat comes in my mouth,
Now I fare as the worm doth;

And no gold binds in my hair,
Now I fare as the blind fare.

My live thews were of great strength,
Now am I waxen a span's length;

My live sides were full of lust,
Now are they dried with dust.

The first board spake and said:
"Is it best eating flesh or bread?"


The second answered it:
"Is wine or honey the more sweet?"

The third board spake and said:
"Is red gold worth a girl's gold head?"

The fourth made answer thus:
"All these things are as one with us."

The dead man asked of them:
"Is the green land stained brown with flame?
Have they hewn my son for beasts to eat,
And my wife's body for beasts' meat?

Have they boiled my maid in a brass pan,
And built a gallows to hang my man?"

The boards said to him:
"This is a lewd thing that ye deem.

Your wife has gotten a golden bed,
All the sheets are sewn with red.

Your son has gotten a coat of silk,
The sleeves are soft as curded milk.

Your maid has gotten a kirtle new,
All the skirt has braids of blue.

Your man has gotten both ring and glove,
Wrought well for eyes to love."


The dead man answered thus:
"What good gift shall God give us?"

The boards answered him anon:
"Flesh to feed hell's worm upon."

      news from algernon


Allen ( Paterson, New Jersey) to Jack (Mexico City)                
Saturday Night, July 8, 1950

Dearest Jack:
      If you are in any ennui or doldrums, lift up your heart, there IS something new under the sun.  I have started into a new season, choosing women as my theme.  I love Helen Parker, and she loves me, as far  as the feeble efforts to understanding of three days spent with her  in Provincetown can discover.  Many  of my fears and imaginations and dun rags fell from me after the first night I slept with  her, when we understood that we wanted each other and began a love affair, with all the trimmings of Eros and memory and  nearly impossible transportation problems.
      She  is  very great, every way--at last, a beautiful intelligent  woman who has  been around and bears the scars of every type of knowledge and yet  struggles with the serpent  knowing  full  well the loneliness of  being  left  with the apple of knowledge and the snake only.  We talk and  talk, I entertain  her in grand manner  with my best groomed Hungarian manner, and I  play Levinsky-on-thetrollycar, or mad  hipster with cosmic vibrations, and then, O wonder, I am  like myself,  and we  talk on seriously and intimately without  irony  about all sorts of  subjects, from the most obscure  metaphysical through a gamut to the  natural  self; then  we  screw, and  I am all man and full  of  love, and then  we smoke and talk some more, and sleep, and  get  up and eat, etc.
      The  first days  after I  lost  my cherry--does  everybody feel like that?  I wandered around in the  most benign and courteous  stupor of delight at the perfection  of nature; I  felt  the ease and relief of knowledge that all the maddening walls of  Heaven were finally down, that all my olden aking corridors were traveled  out of, that all my queerness was a camp, unnecessary,  morbid, so lacking  in completion and  sharing  of love as to be almost as bad as impotence and celibacy, which  it practically was, anyway.  And  the fantasies I began having about all sorts of girls, for the first time freely and with  the knowledge  that they were satisfiable.
      Ah Jack, I always said that I would be a great lover some day.  I  am,  I  am at last.  My lady  is so  fine  that  none compare.   And how can she  resist me?  I'm old, I'm full of love, when I'm  aroused I'm  like a veritable bull  of tenderness; I have no pride of heart, I  know all about all the worlds, I'm poetic, I'm antipoetic, I'm  a labor leader, I'm  a  madman, I'm a  man, I've got one.  And  I have no illusions, and like a virgin I have all of them,  I'm wise,  I'm simple. And she, she's a great old  woman with a beautiful face and a perfect fair body that everybody in the neighborhood calls a whore.   She's so sharp, and  she never makes me shudder. She don't want war, she  wants love....
      By god, I've been canorked with a feather!
      Tell Bill my fright as he described it is quite accurate, and it took me a long time to get over it; but it was also a fear of having put my money on the wrong horse spiritually and sexually; and I was frightened when I discovered that I had, though the race was not yet over; and my bet had consequences to others besides myself--such a responsibility! yet!





the impressionnistes?!
are you serious
american beats
were the most
powerful gang
since the romans
they continue
to change to dissolve

the parnasse
a mere spur not peers
no other cell
only perhaps
the leninists
because of what the future holds

people think they rose
with the tide
without intent
bravely alone
almost all were
confined  in sanitation
but they were right
openness is smart
driving into the west
neal and jack
epiphany












Saturday, May 21, 2011



















so tonight
is iggys homage to jim
who is the connection
of jim to johnny
heavy metal
goth-morrissey
indie spreading
in the death car
were alive
did I forget
ziggy is from john
to bowie

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Wednesday, May 18, 2011


is  love the gnosis
the way union needs to occur
were all supposed to fall in love
to  save the planet

dont ask me to surrender

Id rather bleed
in dry heat
sol
or
at least better
dialogue
WTF
A1A still rolls

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Friday, May 6, 2011

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Tuesday, May 3, 2011


















the lion sleeps with the fishes
but where are hopper's pics
white sheets for apocalypto
and no sheen to stare
can you hear jim singing
the heretic's
last words
from the burbs









Dear Allen                                                                                  
                                                      January 13,1950
                                              New York,  New York

      Tonight while walking on the waterfront in the angelic streets I suddenly wanted to tell you how wonderful I think you are. Please don't dislike me. What is the mystery of the world?  Nobody knows they're angels.   Gods angels are ravishing and fooling me.  I saw a whore and an old man in  a lunchcart, and God  -- their faces!  I wondered what God was up to.   In the subway I almost jumped up to yell, "What  was that for?  What's going on up there?  What do you mean by that?"  Jesus, Allen,  life ain't worth  the candle,  we all  know it , and almost everything is wrong, but there's nothing we can do about  it, and living is heaven.
      Well, here we are in heaven. This is what heaven is like. Also in the subway I suddenly shuddered, for a crack had opened, like cracks open in the ground when there's an earthquake, only this crack opened in the air, and I saw pits.  I was suddenly no longe an angel, but a shuddering devil.
      Mainly, I  wanted to tell  you how dearly  I regard your soul, and value your existence,  and  wish  for your  recognition of my heart's desire, in short, I admire and love you and  consider you a great man always.   Let me boast a moment in order to give value to this, for what good is regard from a dunce, a spook, an elephant or a chocolate drop:  My English editor, (ain't met him yet) sent Giroux a postcard showing picture of the antique Counting House in their firm, and said, "Place looks exactly like it did when we published Goldsmith & Johnson.  Please tell  Kerouac he is in  good  company and  what  is more, is  worthy of it."
      A beat American kid from a milltown, me, is now side by side with  Goldsmith & Johnson.  Isn't it strange historically?  if not actually?  Let us get on  with the mystery of the world.
      For instance, why do I write you this note in spite of the fact that that I'll  see you tomorrow  night?--and  live  in  the same city with you.  Why is everybody like Sebastian in  the  record, stammering, stumbling at the end,  fainter and fainter  with  all  the scratching, saying,  "So  long,  Jack old boy...take it  easy, please...goodbye...old friend...see you soon,  I guess...goodbye...take care of yourself,  now...farewell...I  guess...'bye...so long...goodbye old man."  Most people spend their lives saying that to their best friends;  they're always  putting  on their coats and leaving, and saying goodnight, and going down the street,  and turning to wave a last time...Where they go?
      Let me tell you what the Archangel is going to do.   At a big Walter Adams party, or a Cannastra party,  the Archangel is suddenly going to appear in a blinding  flash of white  light, among  actual waterfalls of honey-light also,  and everybody  will  keep still while the  Archangel, with its voice, speaks.  We  will see, hear, and shudder.  Behind  the archangel we will see that Einstein is all wrong about  enclosed  space...there will be endless space, infinities of  Celestial Vine,  and all  the gores of the mires below, and joyful  singing of  angels  mingling  with  the  shudders of devils.   We'll  see that  everything  exists.  For the first  time we'll  realize that its all alive,  like baby  turtles, and moves in  the middle of  the night  at a  party...and the archangel is  going to tell  us off.  Then clouds of cherubs will fall, mingled with satyrs and whatnots and  spooks.  If  we were not  haunted  by the mystery, we wouldn't realize nothing.
Jack

Dear Jack:                                                 
                                              January 21,50
                                       Paterson Midnight      

      The Letter  of the Archangel  was received  here but unfortunately my father misplaced it and it can't be found.   He did not do it  purposely.  We  spent a long time looking.  I told him not to worry.
      I  was sick and vomited last time we were at Neal's and when I rose in the morning you grabbed the bed.  I was weak on my knees and still sick and that was why I was so  avaricious to get back into bed.   I felt so lousy I was willing to exasperate you.  I remember you got stuck on the  chair but what  could  I do?  I hope you are still  not angry.
      I went  to  a  party last  night--a  sweet  sixteen  party for my  sister  Sheila-- and was a wallflower half  the night  except for a  few moments when I danced  with some teen age girls, and the end of the  night when  I got  drunk with  my step  brother ( who thought  everybody at the  party was "phony") and  told  him tales  about Dakar  witch  doctors and New Orleans whorehouses.  I was surprised  by the boys there--most  of  them  sharply dressed poker  playing frat brothers, all  full of  experience and sensuality  more  mature than  my  own.   I began  to feel so miserable  that I  almost  left feeling no  reason for my  own  existence--like  a  cockroach--till  harold (my step  brother) wandered in late with a frown of anger and looked  at  the crowd of  necking  couples and cursed them all up and down for a bunch of  phony slobs.  Ah, me!  I began sheepishly asking him  what was  wrong, were they really nowhere or was I and he nowhere.   He insisted it was  them and we  got drunk after  that.  After awhile  he began  insulting all the young  girls who  came  though the  kitchen where we were drinking, calling them whores, and spilling water on their dresses ( down their bosoms).   I  had  a  feeling  all the people noticed me  and  asked who was that jerk.  O Paterson, what crucifixions do I not  suffer for love of thee?  I hope someday to become familiar with  them all  and  accepted when I have earned the  honor.  The reason I want to return home is to suffer fully the  abyss between myself  and my  generation and  home and   understand the years that have separated us and go back and  learn  to  live unselfconsciously  with my people.  So far I am Francis in the attic.   I am amazed how  much I think of him  and how true  he is;  but I am Francis after his own death  returned to life  with another chance to be  humiliated and not reject the  humiliation.  (Your novel was a world that is dead, and the characters are still alive walking through the same labyrinth on the other side of death, which is the last page of the written book.)
      When I slept last  night I dreamed  a dream.   I  had just left  Henry Street and was looking for   Bill.    We had  no appointment to meet with each other, because we thought that  the world  was dead,  and didn't knowwhat we would have to tell each other.   But we knew that we would meet with  each other  somewhere in New York.  It would  be a casual  meeting, and  very short:  he would  have  business, and  I would go  on to a movie, though we hadn't seen each other in a long  time.    While  I  walked down the street toward  Eighth Ave. I looke  at  the sky, and there I saw an  eastern auroral halo, as  from  the moon.   And  I turned  and  I looked  to the  west, and  I beheld a halo  in the sky on  the  opposite  half  of  the  sphere.  Each  of  the  two  halos was a  dim circular light exactly  similar, far up in the heavens,  and yet  large enough  to cover a piece of the night equal to  the size of  ten  moons.    After I saw this, I wished that  Bill was there and hoped that he saw it  wherever in  the city he  was.   I couldn't find  him on  the Avenue, nor could I find the bars between  42-43St., then  I  discovered I was on Seventh Avenue not Eighth Avenue.  I went  to Eighth Avenue, and  tried to  find  him , but it was too late, he had gone, and not waited for me.
      This dream is like one that I once had and dimly remember when  I was lost on an unknown vast subway system, and was  looking  for a home-pad in  Brooklyn.

       I am beginning  to get  a touch of  just how strange  and actually sordid the atmosphere here  is among  those who run the city officially.  But perhaps that is just out of the hassle of trying  to hustle a job  that involves "responsibility".   Most people here  who seem to be at all sensitive or powerful or rich  seem  to live lives  and think thoughts dominated  by the smallest sounding (to an outsider) fears  for social security  and business position.  Friendship  is actually  political.  I would not generalize so but these are just  he  impressions of the weekend surface scratching done with no axe to  grind (not even aesthetic that is while I was in  action I  did not think how  mean  it was of  the  paper to refuse a minor job to their  frustrated  genius)  and the real actual  degradation  of personality and  love and  work, the cruelty of the system--the system as an actual horrible machine to be felt and suffered in the middle, watching people lie and cheat each other staggering  their own imaginations and  mine for its reality--makes me wonder if  it turns out to be true,what will happen to me here.   Perhaps  I shall  actually  be crucified  after all.  If  what I am beginning to suspect is true it will be just like rolling off a  log. If  it is true Lucien  can't see because he is on top, not  in the grass  roots.  Everybody is sick at heart at home and full of blatant terrorist machinery.   In some south sea islands they have cruel puberty rites, because the old  men are so evil,  and, not  that they  want to  hurt the young, but they want  to  teach them a lesson in one complete formal explosion without individual  humiliation.
      I am beginning to wonder how evil  the world is again. I thought that by accepting chaos it  would make everything all  right.
      I took Varda ( the Assyrian looking  girl at Simpson's)  out on  a date  last  weekend and  she  introduced me to her best girlfriend and made supper  at her house (the girlfriend , who gave me a painting she made).  I guess I will see her mostly for a while, of the run  of  females I  know.  I wish  I could  meet a really gone sweet girl who could  love me.   But I  guess a really gone sweet girl is too much to expect.
      Why is everything so hard?
      The last lines  of Orwell's 1984 are stubborn self-willed exile from the loving  breast!  "But  it  was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory  over himself.  He  loved  Big Brother."
      Leave word  with Solomon or someone accessible where you will be this weekend.  I will try to be around.
      I turned to write to you in respite from the ugliness of the last days, archangel.
      Love,
      Allen