and I had no idea
what I was thinking about
and abided
in blank ecstasy
112th Chorus
Dont sound reasonable,
dont sound possible,
when you bring it up
But if you dont bring it up,
everything is alright.
Dont believe Mr. Believe Me?
Dont think about him
and boy
you’ll see how he vanishes
in morning’s mist
when the moon
is a crescent a banana
and birds jump
and far over the Atlantic
where Red Amida is Shining
you’ll hear the Call Trumpet
of East is Alright with the West
In the Orb of the Womb
of Tathagata
so round
so empty
so unbelievably
false-lyingly
empty of persimonny
113th Chorus
Got up and dressed up
and went out & got laid
Then died and got buried
in a coffin in the grave,
Man –
Yet everything is perfect,
Because it is empty,
Because it is perfect
with emptiness,
Because it’s not even happening.
Everything
Is Ignorant of its own emptiness –
Anger
Doesnt like to be reminded of fits –
You start with the Teaching
Inscrutable of the Diamond
And end with it, your goal
is your startingplace,
No race was run, no walk
of prophetic toenails
Across Arabies of hot
meaning – you just
numbly dont get there
114th Chorus
Everything is perfect, dear friend.
When you wrote the letter
I was writing you one,
I checked on the dates,
Just about right, and One.
You dont have to worry
about colics & fits
From me any more
or evermore either
You dont have to worry bout death.
Everything you do, is like your hero
The Sweetest angelic tenor of man
Wailing sweet bop
On a front afternoon
When not leading the band
And every note plaintive,
Every note Call for Loss
of our Love and Mastery –
just so, eternalized –
You are a great man
I’ve gone inside myself
And there to find you
And little ants too
115th Chorus
LANGUID JUNKEY SPEECH WITH LIDDED EYES
So bleakly junk hit me never.
Must be something wrong with the day.
“How you feel?” – “Um – Ow” –
Green is the wainscot, wait
For the vaquero, 1, 2, 3 –
all the faces of man
are torting on one
neck
Lousy feeling of never-get-high,
I could swallow a bomb
And sit there a-sighing,
T’s a Baudelairean day,
Nothing goes right – millions
Of dollars of letters from home
And the feeling of being,
Ordinary, sane, sight –
Arm muscles are tense
Nothing ever right
You cant feel right
Hung in Partiality
For to feel the unconditional
No-term ecstasy
Where, of nothing,
I mean, of nothing,
That would be best
116th Chorus
The Jews Wrote American Music
Niki Niki Niki- la
Che wa miena
Pee tee Wah
Song of Lil Mexico Children
Kitchi Kitchi
Kitchy val
Big fat mustachio’d businessmen
Have just to finish their commercial
And go home, saw em at five
Drinking beer at Bar’s Alive
While old Canuck Pot
Looked white & cold
In corner, countin candles
Music
It’s an Aztec Radio
with the sounds thick & guttural
kicking out of the teeth
The Great Jazz Singer
was Jolson the Vaudeville Singer?
No, and not Miles, me.
117th Chorus
Me, Paraclete, you. Ye –
Me, Paraclete, Thee –
Thou Maitreya Love of the Future
– Me.
Me Santiveda me, saint,
Me sinner me – Me baptist
A-traptist of Lower
Absafactus
Me – You
Me, alone in understandin old
void of I love you,
feel fine
Me, you gotta love yourself,
love, somethin,
thass all I can say
The witchcraft Indiana girls
that didnt sing with their hearts,
where never in a better
shock of hay hocks
than the oldtime
singer with dusty feet
that chased death
comes and enfolds you
118th Chorus
It’s all the same to me.
The radio I dont wanta hear
And cant have to hear
Plays one thing and another
Of great Sarah Vag
but no I stop
and grasp
and I forget
that it’s my own fault
See how you do it?
And having grasped
go on singing
because I wouldnt
be writing these poems
if I didnt know
That I grasp I sing
I’ve had times of no-singing,
they were the same
Music is noise, Poetry dirt
119th Chorus
Self be your lantern,
Self be your guide –
Thus Spake Tathagata
Warning of radios
That would come
Some day
And make people
Listen to automatic
Words of others
and the general flash of noises,
forgetting self, not-self –
Forgetting the secret …
Up on high in the mountains so high
the high magic priests are
swabbing in the deck
of broken rib torsos
cracked in the rack
of
Kallaquack
tryin to figure yr way
outa the calamity of dust and
eternity, buz, you better
get on back to your kind
boat
120th Chorus
Junkies that get too high
Shoot up their old stock of stuff
And sit stupidly on edge
Of bed nodding over
The single sentence in the paper
They been staring at all night –
Six, seven hours they’ll do this,
Or get hungup on paragraphs:
“You go on the nod,
Then you come up,
Then you start readin
it again
Then you go on the nod again
and everytime you read it
it gets better”
You dont remember the next
rebirth
but you remember
the experience
“Took me all evening to read
3 or 4 pages, ossified,
on the nod”
121st Chorus
Everything is in the same moment
It doesnt matter how much money you have
It’s happening feebly now,
the works
I can taste the uneaten food
I’ll find
In the next city
in this dream
I can feel the iron railroads
like marshmallow
I cant tell the difference
between mental and real
It’s all happening
It wont end
It’ll be good
The money that was to have been spent
on the backward nations
of the world, has already been
spent in Forward Time
Forward to the Sea,
and the Sea Comes back to you
and there’s no escaping
when you’re a fish
the nets of summer destiny
122nd Chorus
We cannot break
Something that doesnt exist
Derange pas ta tendresse,
Dont break your tenderness
Is advice that comes to “me”
What a poem the knowledge
that Time
With its Pasts & Presents
& Appurtenant
Futures, is One Thing
THE THING ONE WHOLE MASS
Getting dimmer and dimmer
to the feel
What glorious repose knowing
What a Golden Age
of Silent Darkness
in my Happy Heart
as I lay contemplating
the fact that I shall die
anyhow regardless of race
regardless of grace
123rd Chorus
The essence is realizable in words
That fade as they approach.
What’s to be done Bodhisattva?
O live quietly; live to love
Everybody.
Be devout under trees
At midnight on the ground.
No hope in a room
of dispelling the gloom
that’s assembled
Since Moses
Life is the same as death
But the soul continues
In the same blinding light.
Eating is the same as Not Eating
But the stomach continues,
The thinking goes on.
You’ve got to stop thinking,
stop breathing.
How can you travel from Muzzy
to
Muzzy?
Forgive everyone for yr own sins
And be sure to tell them
You love them which you do
124th Chorus
The tall thin rawboned fellow
Come up to Paw and me
On the misty racetrack.
“Got a good one in the fourth.”
“How do YOU know”
says my Dad
“I’m a jockey”
His hat waved over his eyes
In the rain.
I saw Arkansaw
behind him.
He looked too big to be a jockey
to me –
“Just put 4 dollars to win
And give me half
the winnings.”
I dont remember now
whether my father fell
And got laid by that line,
But “too big
man
he too big
to be a jockey”
was my thought
125th Chorus
He shoulda been a football coach,
Joe McCarthy – the guy
that was a turncoat
at the assistant editor
of the Daily Worker?
– the tenement marble
sculptured Attican column
in the moonlight illuminating
my eyes – the ross
osh dewey bilbo long
scatter de crash talk
of Fascist BWAS!
-CLAP TRAP
the machinegunners of Goa
are in the Street mashing
the Saints of McCarthy
Cohn Captus & Company
and all I gotta say is,
remove my name
from the list
And Buddha’s too
Buddha’s me, in the list,
no-name.
126th Chorus
Like running a stick thru water
The use and effect
Of tellin people that
their house
is burning,
And that the Buddha, an old
And wise father
Will save them by holy
subterfuge,
Crying: “Out, out, little ones,
The fire will burn you!
I promise to give you fine
carts
Three in number, different,
Charming, the goat cart,
The deer cart, and
The cart of the bullock
Gayly bedecked – With oranges,
Flowers, holy maidens & trees,”
So the children rush out, saved,
And he gives them
The incomparable single Greatcart
Of the White Bullock, all snow.
127th Chorus
Nobody knows the other side
of my house,
My corner where I was born,
dusty guitars
Of my tired little street where
with little feet
I beetled and I wheedled
with my sisters
And waited for afternoon sunfall
call a kids
And ma’s to bring me back
to supper mainline
Hum washing line tortillas
and beans,
That Honey Pure land,
of Mominu,
Where I lived a myriad
kotis of millions
Of incalculable
be-aeons ago
When white while joyous
was also
Center of lake of light
128th Chorus
How solid our ignorance –
how empty our substance
and the conscience
keeps bleeding
and decay is slow –
children grow.
The toothbone goes
Out of mushy pulp
And you cry
As if rocks
Had been dumped
From a truck
On your back
And whimper,
saying
‘O Lord,
Mercy on Mission.’
129th Chorus
We’ve all been sent
On a mission
To conquer the desert
So that the Shrouded
Traveller
Behind us
Makes tracks in the dust
that dont exist,
He’ll, or We’ll,
All end in Hell
All end in Heaven
For sure –
Unless my guess is wrong,
We are all in for it
And our time
Is Life,
The Penalty,
Death.
The Reward
To the Victor
Then Goes.
The Victor is Not Self
130th Chorus
And the Victor is Not Pride
And the Victor is not.
Thus Spake Tathagata
But I get tired
Of waiting in pain
In a situation
Where I aint sure.
Where I am not sure
Where I am Wolfe
Sorrow
Whitman Free
Melville dark
Mark Twain Mark
Twain
where I am
wild
Where I am Mild
/>
131st Chorus
Where I aim
And do not Miss
Dawdlers.
Alla them are dawdlers.
Poets.
Call themselves poets
Call themselves Kings
Call themselves Free
Calls themself
Hennis free
Calls themself
Calls themself
Calls themself catshit
Calls themself mean
Calls themself me
132nd Chorus
Innumeral infinite songs.
Great suffering of the atomic
in verse
Which may or not be
controlled
By a consciousness
Of which you & the
ripples of the waves
are a part.
That’s Buddhism.
That’s Universal Mind
Pan Cosmodicy
Einstein believed
In the God of Spinoza
(– Two Jews
– Two Frenchmen)
133rd Chorus
“Einstein probably put a lot
of people in the bughouse by
saying that
All those pseudo intellectuals
went home & read Spinoza
then they dig in
to the subtleties
of Pantheism –
After 10 years of research
they wrap it up
& sit down on a bench
& decide to forget
all about it.
Because Pantheism’s
Too Much for Em.
They wind up trying to
find out Plato, Aristotle,
they end up in a
vicious Morphine circle”
134th Chorus
“The only cure for
morphine poisoning
Is more morphine.”
This is the real morphine.
Now it’s after supper
And the little kids
Are out on the street
Yelling “Mo perro,
Mo perro, mo perro”
And the sky is purple
In old hazish Mexico
of Hashisch, Shaslik
And Veal Parmezan.
Russian Spy Buses
Tooting
“Salud”
135th Chorus
The ants are gone asleep
By now, out on those plains
Of pulque and rice
Beyond Pascual
And the Cactus Town
Matador pan
Pazatza cuaro
Mix-technique
Poop
Indio
Yo yo catlepol
Moon Yowl
Indian
Town & City