AN ELECTRONIC CHAPBOOK
CHORUS: THE LEAP
"A fascination with words for their own sake is almost inevitable for the
exile. Words and meanings become slightly detached from each other and the
meanings seem less secure and definite. Someone who writes in a foreign
tongue endows his adopted language with fresh nuances of meaning and often
breaks through the barren cliches of the native writer."
Keven Macdonald, "Emeric Pressburger: The Life and Death of a Screenwriter"
Dream light that reaches for us-
forsakes us-
Haven't you good reason?
This one, that one
aching-
"What of this 'crisis'? Have you had enough of life?"
A woman - you may have read this story - was plagued by what she regarded as
an irrational fear: she
dreamed she was leaping from an airplane and her parachute failed to open.
Her friends told her, "You must confront your fear. You must do something
about it."
So she took lessons, learned to jump from a plane, jumped.
Just as in her dream, her parachute failed to open.
On her way down
she may have thought (amid her terror):
"It wasn't an irrational fear;
it was a premonition."
Love
stays in my head
moves
downward.
What happens? Happened when I was fifteen? Or younger?
Is my life truly this jumble?
Wishing-
What loneliness chills?
Don't complain about it. Why shouldn't I fucking complain about it? Why
shouldn't I fucking do
whatever needs to be done, do it now, god damn it
Love
may be nothing more than a word,
may be less-
nothing
The leap, she said, the leap you make - towards another? towards still
another?
Haven't you had enough?
The death of Ginsberg? Is that what's bothering you?
"You can write about it. I hope you can still do it."
Dream light,
The fullness of life,
the difference between oneself and others
There's quite a difference there, quite a difference. Hadn't you noticed?
If man is losing faith in himself and in his most cherished
institutions, the
fact is one of far-reaching consequence. It may be noted that
the things
he is losing confidence in are those which have most glorified
the
individual capitalism, democracy, and Protestantism. Some
would
throw over capitalism, some would alter the imperatives of
democracy;
others would do away with corporations or abolish labor
unions. Still
others would turn back, bemoaning the fact that they ever left
the valley;
they are homesick for the old days. These last constitute a
very powerful
group, men who succeeded by their own efforts, who have become
established; they view the dissatisfaction of their brothers
with mixed
alarm and disgust. They shout encouragement to those who
falter (YEA);
they yell imprecations at those who fail (BLEAH). But if we
examine their
antecedents, we are likely to find that most of them long ago
abandoned
the principles they teach, principles of individual action,
and that they
are successful because they have acted for corporate groups,
blocks of
human beings who have yielded their property and in some
measure
their own will to a power much greater than an individual.
They retain
their individualism only because they lead a group, not
because they act
as individuals. Viewing these indecisive people as a marching
herd, we
see them no longer moving with accustomed unity. The herd
wavers,
recoils before obstacles, and tends to become stubborn and
recalcitrant.
The members are no longer of one mind.
language
moves
into the heart
hopelessly measuring
syllable
by
syllable
breath -
"breath's burial"
"the association of writing with death" and breath
One hopes
to "live"
Have you engendered anything? asks the saint (O'Toole)
Have you brought anything to completion?
Wombtomb Boombomb
The struggle of mind with TEXTS
And so there you are
gazing at the stupidity of people in high places
among the prize winners the culture-bringers
the big "names"
unable to name them without bringing
disaster
upon
yourself
(death?)
Have you ENGENDERED anything? asks O'Toole in his Irish accent
I had a child-- he's a man now. A few books. Ideas.
(Some that came toppling down upon me--Bless me, father!)
I wish you to speak strictly says the saint
I want you to tell the truth
to desire
as D.H. Lawrence did
at the end of his life
(Lawrence much younger then than I am
now)
a "clean" death
a "passionate"
death -
watch out you see death walks up to you
smiling
(he has no plans for a funeral)
"Do not fear death"
(how can one help but fear death?)
"fear the mechanical"
what springs from life?
"Not every man has gentians in his house
in soft September, at slow, sad Michelmas"
"Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion"
how
to restore
the SENSE
of death
that
darkness
beyond
darkness
that
flowering
under
world
"bavarian gentians each one is a torch"
into the loam!
I hold the golden bough in my hand
the key
to
darkness darkness darkness
(shouted) MANDRAKE THE MAGICIAN!
Who do you think you are? Cape, top hat, walking stick,
cream of the bourgeoisie, mountebank,
talker? With your companion spouse-person
Lothar (clearly not short for "Lothario")
People of color, women second in command,
not really quite it, you being it,
you the magician, the one who makes things happen,
the one who transforms
everything, here, in this format clearly meant for chidren,
for me, then, hey, Mandrake, mandragora, "Get with
child a mandrake root," get with it child, you are your own
protector, this thin man with a mustache and a slightly distant manner
everything about him says: "control"--
If you can't be him you can buy him.
(How does one create
community
without acknowledging
the other)
verses questioning the solidity of fix'd identity, proposing mutability &
inherent emptiness (Sunyata) nature of
selfhood
original task was to "widen
the area of consciousness"
I ate a
sandwich of pure meat: an
enormous
sandwich of human flesh;
I noticed,
while I was chewing on it,
it also
included a dirty asshole.
Don't
hide the madness.
Then
I knew
she was a
dream: and questioned her
- Joan Burroughs,
what kind of knowledge have
the
dead? can you still love
your
mortal acquaintances?
What do
you remember of us?
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets
at dawn looking for an angry fix
under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset
Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision
wept,
realizing how we suffer -
And how Death is that
remedy all singers dream of
There, rest. No more suffering for you. I
know where you've gone, it's good
No
flower like that flower
Blessed be
Death! Blessed be Death!
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
I want to be there in your
garden party in the clouds
all
of us naked
strumming our harps and reading
each other new poetry
The
war is language
How'd I
get into this fix,
this
workaholic show-
biz
meditation market?
If I
had a soul I sold it
for
pretty words
If I
had a body I used
it up
spurting my essence
Allen
Ginsberg warns you
dont
follow my path
to
extinction
I here declare
the end of the War!
Everybody's
just a little
bit
homo sexual
Please
master
How many Sundays wake and lie immobile eyes
closed remembering Death
high blood pressure, kidneystones,
diabetes, misty eyes & dysesthesia -
feeling lack in feet soles, inside ankles,
small of back, phallus head, anuso
Death,
stay thy phantoms!
She wrote - 'The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the
window - I have the key - Get married Allen
don't take drugs - the key is in the bars, in
the sunlight in the window.
Love,
your
mother'
No
Harm
from the
invisible world
Om Mani
Padmi Hum
Remembering
words or
"icons"
drift in a haze of
day's dazzle drifting into
your BODY
look, the swan ("cygne," "signe")
the dream which
"disturbed" - openly
my lips on your lips
"D0 NOT DISTURB OCCUPANTS" occupants are disturbed enough already
not thinking to
it was Saint Laurence O'Toole
came up to me and put
a finger on my shoulder
and said,
"Me by, wot other people have ye
disturbbbbbbed
wit yr
loud
cries
moaning here an there"
the bastard
dream
her lips open
to
mine
fatigue
may mask
the refusal
to look
at
something
Those days
I spent
hours
asleep
unable
to
"rouse"
myself
"our little life"
fatigue
deth "hollow eyed"
it was O'Toole again
(he
flatters)
Sleep
this burden
will
fall from you
sleep
childhood
whispers:
let go, give over, sleep
The possibility
that
eccentricity
is
illness
unknown
The possibility
that your
founding
alienation
(everything
people tell me
is WRONG)
is illness
You mean you never thought of that before asks O'Toole Sheesh
when the
bases
of your art
fail
the procedures
by which
you maneuvered
language
seem suddenly
as arbitrary
as whatever happens to you
in the street
when the terror
of freedom
invades
you
this,
he sd,
is your only
moment
Are your
insights
nothing
And this one he sd
is a "star-
fucker"
Look at him
ooze his way
among the famous
sleep
mother is near
her body
just beyond
your
reach
sleep, beloved
sleep, let go
give over, time
touches
lightly
like a mother's
touch
time is sleep
sleep now
do not
reach over
that body
is gone
O'Toole of the significant surname whispers
sleep
put care
aside
sleep too
is
sickness
Whew! What a day that was
We went to this little place (the
"Seabreeze")
to have breakfast and
on our way back
we
saw this
terrific
statue
on the corner
of Madison and 5th in Oakland and I
said
"Hey we have to
get a picture of that"
and so
we went
back
for the
camera
and you know
"shot"
the statue
I kept
backing in
to
the
traffic
and you
said
"Hey
there's a
car
coming"
and I
had been thinking
of
Frank
O'Hara
and
his
AGONY
after
a
car
hit
him
Someone
said
"Frank"
and he turned
and saw
this
thing
coming at him
and
it wasn't
a
car
it was
his own
death
and I
kept
"shooting"
the
statue
and you
said
"Jack"
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Tales of
horror
(what do you
think about her?)
Zero plug
(too many
downtrodden)
give me a
couple of bucks
(so I can
spend it on wine)
Tales of
lust and disaster
(bad star)
She said,
He's my best friend but I don't love him"
("I mean I
LOVE him but I don't LOVE him")
formally
(I should
shut my mouth)
yahoo
(what's it
to you buddy)
she showed
me her stick
(which was
all wet)
riveted
(by her mini
skirt)
dark
(mu-sic)
fuck
(you)
cold
(descends)
in an hour
(two)
in a
(day)
till
(tell) -
poetry -
your "real"
thoughts as you "really" live -
how do we
account for this
(what is the
purpose)
"She is
married, O King of kings, to the goddess Isis whom she loves alone.
She is under
the protection of Isis and inviolate."
"That remains
to be seen, Shabaka."
Bless me,
father
Does the
poem "express"
something or
does it "create" something?
And if it
creates
something
what does it
create?
"Poetry is
to make pronouncements," someone pronounced
To what do
the words "bless" and "damn" refer? Do I believe
any of it?
Poetry is to
make pronouns!
- on some
dark night
- at least
you lie well
- then I
knew
- every man
bowed towards me, yes?
Deep river,
take my soul