of meat & cabbage,
All starving,
on floor are iron plates
hot, not too hot,
They all start slowly
cooking, but keep moving up
as men with central
hotplate heat
get impatient & eat
meat half raw –
so he keeps pushing up
his little meat
towards the center –
These people are all bums –
Hang around in restaurants
Where there’s nothing to eat
And you sit a table
And suddenly there’s a guy
165th Chorus
under the table
cooking your leg
in some kind of steam
– much quicker job
with the steam on the leg
than central radiant
wildheat of cabbage
plates
in Grand C Station
And I see: “Everybody’s eatin you.
You eat them,
makes no difference,
the essence does not pass
From mouth to mouth
And craw to craw,
it’s ignorance does.
ignorant form.
the essence is not
disturbed
really,
Like the sudden thought
of India is a dream”
166th Chorus
A home for unmarried fathers.
He said I must investigate
some day, that –
Homefront married fathers,
– some whacky idea –
like a home for unmarried fathers
would be.
Pegler and the Cabinet
of Peligroso FDR
– Firstbase, Perkins;
Eleanor, Right field;
Pitching, Cervantes
the Cuban Newcomer
from downriver
Harlem
riding a white
horse riot
Picasso
in his helmet
Jesus
167th Chorus
The details are all the same,
Like honey stored in beehives,
Like atomic power, so many
Atoms, the details per
Square inch are the life of it
And the death of it
The critical mass collapses
And like a tumbled Sand castle
When the tide of disintegration
And its conception rise,
Flops into the sea softmaw
Sand salvaging, bells
Toll it not offshore.
The Castle was a Dream.
Now learn
that the water is a dream
For when the Tide of Disaster
Rises water will disintegrate
And all will be left
Is the Successful Savior
Abiding Everywhere in
Beginningless Ecstatic Nobody
168th Chorus
Asking questions and listening
is sincerity;
Asking questions and listening
without really listening
Is a kind of sincerity; but
Talking about yourself alia
time, is not insincere.
It’s all the same thing
In the long run, the short run
the no run
Whitman examinated grass
and concluded
It to be the genesis
& juice, of pretty girls.
“Hair of Graves,” footsteps
Of Lost Children,
Forgotten park meadows,
– Looking over your shoulder
At the beautiful maidens –
169th Chorus
Lie down
Rest
Breathe slowly
Dead in Time
You’re dead already
What’s a little bit more time got to do
with it
So you’re dead
So the Living Loathe the Dead,
themselves –
So forgive, reassure, pat, protect,
and purify them
Whatever way is best.
Thus Spake, Tathagata.
The girls are pretty
But their cherries are itty
And if they aint got cherries
Sleep in the Park anyway
And if you dont go near them
You dont get that sensation
Of their inexhaustible delicacy
Dead in Time – Rest in Time
170th Chorus
Rest in Delicacy
The far border of the puff lace
clouds of Amida’s Western
Heaven of Diamond Repose
is Delicate
And delicate is the Spanish
language, delicate the Spanish
they speak in Upper Bleak
where King Sariputra
holds forth a tablet of ice
(I mean diamonds)
to be read by the highest
most delicate Bodhi papa
in the whole confraternity
– Old Buddha of Old
In his Magic Selves
Commingled as One, Maitri,
Coos delicate songs
To the lyres & guitars
Of the minds of the Lapis
Lazuli old Saints
171st Chorus
When I hear that serenade
in blue –
Tell me darling are these things
the same
That we had always known
Well all alone
And true, it’s that serenade
O serenade,
In the blue, in the blue.
Oopli da da
Aow dee a dee e-da-ha
You never had no chance
Fate dealt you wrong hands
Romance never came back
Crashing interruptions
So I’m with you
happy once again
and singing all my blues
in tune with you
with you
172nd Chorus
When I hear that
serenade in bleu,
OO dee de ree,
– a song I could sing
in a low new voice
to be recorded
on quiet microphones
of the Roman Afternoon,
tape, a new kind of voice,
sung for the self
sung for yourself
to hear in a room
where you dont
want to be
interrupt
ed
Or made to sing dirges
Of suicide & main
in the candle of the handle
of the coffin to blame
173rd Chorus
The funerals of the doornails
Gay Chocolateers with sadness
of Marshes across
their Germany
Hope of Eleanoras of Russia
rising from
the railroad
Nevsky track
Loud upturned chocolate bedpans
of Saturday Night
Drugstore Windows
showing rubber
and the sexfiend
watching
Oldtime childhood shoesheens
The Music of the uninhabited spheres
being played & developed
over ages for no one
That’s the Radio to me
The Ultimo Actual Soundbody
discriminating in the air
by means of men tubes
invented by the 95 devils
174th Chorus
The freshwater eels of Europe
That climb up their rivers
And presumably raid fjords
And eat up pools, curious
Proustian visitors from up the<
br />
mountain
Of the sea, which, when they die,
they re-cross, to Bermuda,
from whence they came, to die.
Must be that these eel
Have a yen to explore
The veins of Old Atlantis
From their sunken mountaintop
This side Canaryas
But no – they slide
From Europe to Ukraine
And down the Belgian Rivers,
And blankly in the void
Swim back to spawn
And die with longfaced pouts
– Poor fish.
175th Chorus
Cunalingus
My sister’s playin piana in Vienna
The Jews are Genius Gypsies
The Moors are Poor.
Aristotle, Isabel,
Ferdinand the Bull.
Ferdinand was no Dumb-Bell –
Piano high was Vienna
When Freud interviewed
The oversexed Rothschilds
And Richjews of Vienna
And the Gypsies were camped
In apartments – with lamps –
All the wealth of Europe
had poured
Into Vienna – Freud was there –
So his Psychoanalysis Sex
Chart of Mad talk
Was accepted as Gospel
By undermined golfcourses
of the River West –
The multiple too-much of the world
176th Chorus
The reason why there are so many things
Is because the mind breaks it up,
The shapes are empty
That sprung into come
But the mind wont know this
Till a Buddha with golden
Lighted finger, hath pointed
To the thumb, & made an aphorism
In a robe on the street,
That you’ll know what it means
For there to be too many things
In a world of no-thing.
One no-thing
Equals
All things
When sad sick women
Sing their sex blues
In yr ear, have no fear
have no fear –
the moon is true, enough,
but, but, but, but, but,
it keeps adding up
177th Chorus
Farewell, tendril
I dont wanta play like that
when I find you
as a world
In my heart
I dont want
To talk it lightly
And make jokes
And find myself
Paranoically
Grunting loud huge grunt
Of Gordo Exer-
Indian-Cise,
I’d – O Christ –
wouldn’t want to be cool
in hot hell
and be goofing
when yr sweet attentions
all me, thee,
describe, self-descried
in one essential
l i g h t ,
the holy gold so-called
178th Chorus
Put the blame on intelligence –
the reason, no,
not the bloody reason,
the asskissed burned
Chicago Putdown
talk of time –
who was it maimed
the rescue,
and made – the mistake –
and held
the loft
and lost
and got lost
and knew nothing –
What knew the blame?
Who put the blame?
Who’s trying to throw me
out?
Who am I?
do I exist?
(I don’t even exist anyhow)
179th Chorus
Glenn Miller and I were heroes
When it was discovered
That I was the most beautiful
Boy of my generation,
They told Glenn Miller,
Whereby he got inspired
And wrote the saxophone
Wrote the reed sections –
like sautergain & finn –
and then they all did dance
and kissed me mooning stars
and I became the Yokum
of the wall-gang, flowers,
and believed in truth & loved
the snowy earth
and had no truck
and no responsibility
a bhikku in my heart
waiting for philosophy’s
dreadful murderer
BUDDHA
180th Chorus
When you work on that railroad
You gotta know what old boy’s
sayin
In that en-gyne,
When you head brakie
just showin up for work
on a cold mist dusk
ready to roll
to on down the line
lettuce fields
of Elkhorn
& sea-marshes
of the hobo highriding
night, flash Salinas –
“Somebody asked me where
I come from
I tell them it’s none a their
business,
Cincinnatta”–
Poetry just doesnt get there
181st Chorus
The girls go for that long red
tongue,
From the pimp with the long red
car,
They lay it in his hand
The profits’ curfew
He takes it “The Yellow Kid”
– He’s the Man –
She goes home and hustles,
Remembering Caroline,
The hills when little
The raw logcabin
rotting in the piney woods
where the mule was mush
and pup-dog howled
for no owner
all one owl-hoot night
and watermelon flies
on the porch
But she love that long red tongue
And the Man
is a Sucker
“SOMEONE LOWER THAN SHE IS”
182nd Chorus
The Essence of Existence
is Buddhahood –
As a Buddha
you know
that all the sounds
that wave from a tree
and the sights
from a sea of fairies
in Isles of Blest
and all the tastes
in Nectar Soup
and all the odors
in rose arbour
– ah rose, July rose –
bee-dead rose –
and all the feelings
in the titwillow’s
chuckling throat
and all the thoughts
in the raggedy mop
of the brain –
one dinner
183rd Chorus
“Only awake to Universal Mind
And realize that there is nothing
Whatever to be attained. This
Is the real Buddha.”
Thus spake Hsi Yun
to P’ei Hsiu
Names so much like each other
You know it cant be wrong
You know that sweet Hsi Yun
Had eyes to see the Karma
Wobbling in the balloon
– shiney –
millions of dollars damage
from rains and floods –
vast fading centers of a Kansas
central standard time
buss-i-ness
my fron
Only awake to Universal Mind,
accept everything,
see everything,
it is empty,
Accept as thus – the Truth.
184th Chorus
“Men are afraid to forget
thei
r own minds,
Fearing to fall thru the void
With nothing to which they can cling.
They do not know
that the void
is not really void
but the real realm
of the Dharma”–
Wow, I thought reading that,
when I start falling
in that inhuman pit
of dizzy death
I’ll know (if
smart enough t’remember)
that all the black
tunnels of hate
or love I’m falling
through, are
really radiant
right eternities
for me
185th Chorus
Farewell, pistil –
“as old as space”
“without the faintest tendency
towards rebirth”
No-self, no-self, no-self,
Dass iss the order of the day,
Virya, Zeal, Wednesday,
When I can turn this old
patayo Matago dun’s
nest of hornet toad
shoot bewallopers
worrying in Finnegan’s
Whorehouse about nothing,
into a Pagoda of Bright
Jesus Lace Snow
Japana dreams,
with showers of aura
arras flower rose
bepetalling pet by pet
from the holy dispenser
of dogs –
Farewell, puppy
186th Chorus
It’s all happening in snow
But I shudder.
Now there’s no reason for that.
Now argue the sky saints.
And down below, I mourn
and low like an old cow
in a rastro slaughterhouse
in the I-Dont-Know
district of Hellavides’
Devil Dang –
No, hmf, damn, boy,
boom – hell’s clutters
that meated dante
when he virgilized
his poign –
bom –
om, atva,
svaha, snatva,
Holy Old Howl Who’ll
Ya
Is Okay
187th Chorus
Do not Seek,
and Eliminate nothing,
concluded the Chinese
Master of 840 B.C.
“Observe the Void which lies
before your eyes
How can you set about
eliminating it?”
Buddhism is a big bomb on the head
and it hurts
After which comes I know
the milky fliss,
fluff, soft AW eternities,
skyrockets,
snowflakes, hope revealed,