THE EXPERIODDICIST 16 (Tribute to Allen Ginsberg)
Experioddicist 16 - Part 2 - Tribute to Allen Ginsberg

COUNT YOUR YELLOW PETALS for Allen Neeli Cherkovski count your yellow petals & drop to your knees, kiss the arm & fight down the stream, rapids roar & wise men bleed, old magicians leave the town is still & wolfs abound in books that sit within a child's reddish fist until the sun ripens eyes & ambition fills the skies it has to be innocence that leaves and experience that fills the dais with famous voices able to handle media & TV waves & say a proper wild prayer even as the prophetic bear bear repetition in a glance don't loose patience or generosity or a third eye's glimmer of responsibility count your dreams & keep your pleadings & push your letters & Blake your prophecies down to the breakers & salt the memory of love & embrace the tree & tear the leaf from luck & bring your arm of honey to cover all you've lost & tell the wide eyed singer how you loved his ancient bardic over-the-top lyrical splendor not to mention unforced thunder & guard the guardhouse as you open the gates & beard the song of open roads & let them sleep as man & woman & hear the dogs & tygers jump across the earth's ribcage & rattle your single letters into one long path, past anger & animosity toward mimicry of Spring & Winter & into glazing furnaces with eyes that fill your head from dusk until the sun bleeds catastrophic sorrow & make the bard your bardic measure & sit beside the tumid night as moonlight passes far from fingers and sight leaps toward Lear's loud roar & Buddha trembles at the touch of too much newsprint & death has taken yet another & sister light give brother silence a kiss on the brow and that's the beginning of what we write & fingers blow apart deep in day & more light spreads & more light fights to break through realms of how & be's of then & kings wlll wilt and he will be one more night through whispering forest & single trees whisper through the pens thin wall to make paper glow & streets shudder, a door will fly in the air & we will step above desire & yet desire grows wider & the garden is a cemetery's ante- room & cold wind clears April down to where boys grow older and girls assume an old woman's pose & this power to see within the grain begins again and again until he returns who was deep in the seed & when the seed begins to grow Neeli Cherkovski 10 april 97
A G Jack Foley "Jack asked me to send you the AG poem. In case the format loses something when sqeezed through the phone lines, all of the text is centered and the last u has a bar across the top. Adelle" A.G. June 3, 1926 April 5, 1997 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, 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, anus 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
In The Spirit of Allen Ginsberg Ivan Arguelles the blind idiocy of history and money! to program the man between the shoulders to a unidimensional focus the poverty of historicity and I gamble with fate to beggar the lyric a fortune of verse the stranger that I am afflicted with memory of the poem before it came to be I mean the reinforced concrete that precedes the epic the unknown that asserts itself the very enigma & sphinx I am powerless to detonate the agency has exhausted itself the man in the street keeps being plundered I am powerless to support the world is a maniac's idea idiocy of history and money market slumps anthropophagic notions late at night when the wild one bares her rump to Boreas semantic relationships to say the least and whatver else can occur on the last lost night so long ago when the white hawthorn & dogwood aquiver were all abloom the phenomenal thing about poetry is that it continually reinvents itself from the archaic and autochthonic utilizing locative constructions to emphasize the abstract numinous the powers within that green the bard's special mind and out rolls hexameter after hexameter and the comparisons to delphic Apollo who does give blessing to the Great Work bringing the music to its circumvallation intent on making slight incisions on the goddess's buttocks just enough to draw a trickle of sacral blood and in the dream inside the dream the hag mounts the annual king destroying him with her powerful convulsing sex which is a form of anthroposophy or otherworldly prosody the links between virus and strength like those between evil and good have no reflection in the moral spectrum and I rage at the blind idiocy of history and money! climbing ziggurat after ziggurat in search of the perfect sound as heaven's chasm opens thunderously over pure Helicon think not that I do not recognize my own puny humanity invalidated by brief mortality I scrape the dust with my begging bowl but this illegal traffic of hyperboreans this mad mixture of myth and truth for yes I am a mythophone a veritable sanskrit parrot an exclusion to reality but does one really improve the self? to be caught in that act is to negate the self the fundament cannot be repaired jupiter himself is half-dead hanging over the balcony spewing his guts out on the ruins of time five thousand feet below jupiter has never heard of america the soles of his feet have beeen scorched skinless who is the mad avatar at work here? NO I denounce the blind idiocy of history and money! the man on the street keeps being plundered he is aphonic & unidimensional he cannot lift his voice in protest his mind is a radio of garbage I am fully aware of the parataxis of the distance between laurel-browed Apollo and the witness at Nuremberg I cannot keep it straight But I can keep it as I am the indigenous liar the sinner without a prophylactic & the lawyers can assure me of nothing not even a fair trial AOI! ivan arguelles 4 4 1997