I’m completely at a loss,
There is no hope
Though I know the arbitrary conception
of suffering is racking
my metaphysical
handicapped ribs,
and I dont even exist less sing,
and I been paid
for work I done
when I was young
and work was fun
and I dont know name from mercy,
aint got no blues
no shoes no eyes
no shoetongues, lungs,
no happiness, no art,
nothing to do, nothin to part,
no hairs to split
sidewalks to spit,
words to make flit
in the fun-of make-it,
horror & makeshift poetry
covering the fact I’m afraid
to work at a steady job
jungles of hair on my wrists
magnified 1000 times
in Hells of Eternity
228th Chorus
Praised be man, he is existing in milk
and living in lillies –
And his violin music takes place in milk
and creamy emptiness –
Praised be the unfolded inside petal
flesh of tend’rest thought –
(petrels on the follying
wave-valleys idly
sing themselves asleep) –
Praised be delusion, the ripple –
Praised the Holy Ocean of Eternity –
Praised be I, writing, dead already &
dead again –
Dipped in ancid inkl
the flamd
of T i m
the Anglo Oglo Saxon Maneuvers
Of Old Poet-o’s –
Praised be wood, it is milk –
Praised be Honey at the Source –
Praised be the embrace of soft sleep
– the valor of angels in valleys
of hell on earth below –
Praised be the Non ending –
Praised be the lights of earth-man –
Praised be the watchers –
Praised be my fellow man
For dwelling in milk
229th Chorus
In the ocean there’s a very sad turtle
(Even tho the SS Mainline Fishin Ship
is reeling in the merit like mad)
Swims longmouthed & sad, looking
for the Impossible Except Once
afternoon when the Yoke, Oh,
the old Buddha Yoke set a-floatin
is in the water where the turtle raises
his be-watery snop to the sea
and the Yoke yokes the Turtle
a Eternity –
“Tell me O Bhikkus,
what are the chances,
of such a happening,
for the turtle is old
and the yoke free,
and the 7 oceans bigger
than any we see
in this tiny party.”
Chances are slender –
In a million million billion kotis
of Aeons and Incalculables, Yes,
the Turtle will set that Yoke free,
but till then, harder yet
are the chances, for a man
to be reborn a man
in this Karma earth
230th Chorus
Love’s multitudinous boneyard
of decay,
The spilled milk of heroes,
Destruction of silk kerchiefs
by dust storm,
Caress of heroes blindfolded to posts,
Murder victims admitted to this life,
Skeletons bartering fingers and joints,
The quivering meat of the elephants of kindness
being torn apart by vultures,
Conceptions of delicate kneecaps,
Fear of rats dripping with bacteria,
Golgotha Cold Hope for Gold Hope,
Damp leaves of Autumn against
the wood of boats,
Seahorse’s delicate imagery of glue,
Sentimental “I Love You” no more,
Death by long exposure to defilement,
Frightening ravishing mysterious beings
concealing their sex,
Pieces of the Buddha-material frozen
and sliced microscopically
In Morgues of the North,
Penis apples going to seed,
The severed gullets more numerous than sands –
Like kissing my kitten in the belly
The softness of our reward
231st Chorus
Dead and dont know it,
Living and do.
The living have a dead idea.
A person is a living idea;
after death, a dead idea.
The idea of living is the same
as the idea of death.
The dead have a living idea –
Dead, it aint my fault
I was only an idea –
Respected penitence in a shack
dedicated to the study of Origin –
The good Buddha-material
is not a sin-cloth –
Cloth of Light –
Beings alive indicate death
by their jaunty work
Just as the dead indicate the living
by their silence
When rock becomes air
I will be there
232nd Chorus
Buddhists are the only people who dont lie,
In the Sacred Diamond Sutra
Mention is made that God will die –
“There are no Buddhas
and no Dharmas” – means –
There is no Universal Salvation Self,
The Tathagata of Thusness has understood
His own Luvaic Emanations
As being empty, himself and his womb
Included – No Self God Heaven
Where we all meet and make it,
But the Meltingplace of the Bone Entire
In One Light of Mahayana Gold,
Asvhaghosha’s singing in your ear,
And Jesus at your feet, washing them,
And St. Francis whistling for the birds –
All conjoined though and melted
And all be-forgotten, pas’t on,
Come into Change’s Lightless Domain
And beyond all Conception,
Waiting in anticipatory halls
Of Bar-Light, ranging, searchlights
Of the Eye, Maitreya and his love,
The dazzling obscure parade
of elemental diamond phantoms
And dominos of chance,
Skeletons painted on Negresses
Standing by unimportant-to-you
Doorways, into Sleep-With-Me
The alley way behind.
233rd Chorus
There is no selfhood that can begin the practice
Of seeking to attain Anuttara Samyak Sambodhi
Highest Perfect Wisdom
Yet
“Faithfully and earnestly observe and study
and explain this Scripture to others”
is the gory reminder of bone.
Others. “Listen, Subhuti! Wherever
This Scripture shall be observed and studied
and explained, that place
will become sacred ground
to which countless devas and angels
will bring offerings. Such
places, however humble they may be,
will be reverenced as though
they were famous temples & pagodas,
to which countless pilgrims will come
to offer worship and incense.
And over them the devas & angels
Will hover like a cloud & will sprinkle
offerings of celestial flowers
upon them.”
The Pilgrims are happy.
The Pilgrim of the
Holy Grail, the Snail,
The Pilgrim of the Fine Pagoda,
The Pilgrim of the Five Tendencies
to Hear and Support Prayer –
No selfhood that can begin the practice
of seeking to attain
234th Chorus
Holy poetry.
“All things are empty of self-marks.”
“If it is space
that is perception of sight
You ought to know,
and if we were to substitute
One for the other, who’d win?”
Santiveda, St. Francis, A Kempis,
Hara
A sinner may go to Heaven
by serving God as a sinner
235th Chorus
Dont camp,
You know very well
What’ll happen to you
When you die
and claim
you dont know you’re dead
when you die and you know
“I know dont know that I’m dead”
Dont camp. Death, the no-buzz,
no-voices, is, must be, the same,
as life, the tzirripirrit of thupsounds
in this crazy world that horrifies my mornings
and makes me mad wildhaired in a room
like old metaphysical ogrish poets
in rooms of macabre mysteries.
But it’s hard to pretend you dont know
That when you die you wont know.
I know that I’m dead.
I wont camp. I’m dead now.
What am I waiting for to vanish?
The dead dont vanish?
Go up in dirt?
How do I know that I’m dead.
Because I’m alive
and I got work to do
Oh me, Oh my,
Hello – Come in –
236th Chorus
The Buddhist Saints are the incomparable saints
Mooing continue of lovemilk, mewling
And purling with lovely voices for love,
For perfect compassionate pity
Without making one false move
of action,
Perfectly accommodating commiserations
For all sentient belaboring things.
Passive Sweetsaints
Waiting for yr Holyhood,
Hoping your eventual join
In their bright confraternity.
Perfect Divines. I can name some.
What’s in a name. They were saints
Of the Religion of the Awakening
From the Dream of Existence
And non-existence.
They know that life and death,
The knowing of life, muteness of death,
Are mutual dual twin opposites
Conceptioning on each side of the Truth
Which is the pivot in the Center
And which says: “Neither life
nor death – neither existence
nor non-existence – but the central
lapse and absence of them both
(in Love’s Holy Void Abode)”
237th Chorus
“Ma mère, tu est la terre.”
What does that mean?
For one thing, Damema was the mother of Buddhas,
in Ancient India and Modern Asia
you put up a Virgin Mary very weird
in your altars and ikons, Damema,
with crowns of light coming out of her head
and lotuses and incense sticks
and big sad blue eyes inside Flowers.
People light perpetual candles to her name,
Wax in glass with wick, fire,
For 30 days the pale Mystic Face
Of Damema flickers in the ceiling corner
And the dogs bark outside.
They get water from the moon,
Send boys out of sight in baskets,
Sleep in the streets of night,
Playing flutes & having curbstone nightclubs
And the curbstone put there by the British –
They honor and beseech and pray to
Damema.
To me Damema is like Virgin Mary,
Mother Maya of Siddhartha Buddha
Died at his childbirth,
Like all mothers should be,
Going to heaven on their impulse
Pure and free and champion of birth.
Damema the Milky Mother
Damema the Secret Hero
238th Chorus
Who was it wrote “Money is the root of all evil?”
Was it Oscar Wilde in one of his witties?
Was it Celine – nah.
Was it Alexander Pope, Benjamin Franklin
or William Shakespeare –
Was it Pope in one of his many
clever lines?
Benjamin in his Almanac of Peers
has Richard the Chicken Liver
Express a private pear.
Or is Shakespeare blowing wild
Confucius-Polonius witticismical
Paternity-type advice –
“Money is the root of all evil”
For I will
Write
In my will
“I regret that I was not able
To love money more.”
For which reason I go into retreat
And monastery – all monastic in a cell
With devotions and hellpellmell
And Yumas Arctic Gizoto Almanac
Priotho Consumas Konas
In the Corner, & Mother Damema
239th Chorus
Charley Parker Looked like Buddha
Charley Parker, who recently died
Laughing at a juggler on the TV
after weeks of strain and sickness,
was called the Perfect Musician.
And his expression on his face
Was as calm, beautiful, and profound
As the image of the Buddha
Represented in the East, the lidded eyes,
The expression that says “All is Well”
– This was what Charley Parker
Said when he played, All is Well.
You had the feeling of early-in-the-morning
Like a hermit’s joy, or like
the perfect cry
Of some wild gang at a jam session
“Wail, Wop” – Charley burst
His lungs to reach the speed
Of what the speedsters wanted
And what they wanted
Was his Eternal Slowdown.
A great musician and a great
creator of forms
That ultimately find expression
In mores and what have you.
240th Chorus
Musically as important as Beethoven,
Yet not regarded as such at all,
A genteel conductor of string
orchestras
In front of which he stood,
Proud and calm, like a leader
of music
In the Great Historic World Night,
And wailed his little saxophone,
The alto, with piercing clear
lament
In perfect tune & shining harmony,
Toot – as listeners reacted
Without showing it, and began talking
And soon the whole joint is rocking
And everybody talking and Charley
Parker
Whistling them on to the brink of eternity
With his Irish St Patrick
patootle stick,
And like the holy piss we blop
And we plop in the waters of
slaughter
And white meat, and die
One after one, in time.
241st Chorus
And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charley Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at official bits in clubs,
S
hots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the
perfect
horn
Anyhow, made no difference.
Charley Parker, forgive me –
Forgive me for not answering your eyes –
For not having made an indication
Of that which you can devise –
Charley Parker, pray for me –
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charley Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here
To up, down, east, or west –
– Charley Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body
242nd Chorus
The sound in your mind
is the first sound
that you could sing
If you were singing
at a cash register
with nothing on yr mind –
But when that grim reper
comes to lay you
look out my lady
He will steal all you got
while you dingle with the dangle
and having robbed you
Vanish.
Which will be your best reward,
T’were better to get rid o
John O’ Twill, then sit a-mortying
In this Half Eternity with nobody
To save the old man being hanged
In my closet for nothing
And everybody watches
When the act is done –
Stop the murder and the suicide!
All’s well!
I am the Guard
Jack Kerouac, Mexico City Blues
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends