Collected Poems 1947-1997

  the porches and woods changed when I go back / to see Earl again

  He’ll be a bald / fleshy father / I could pursue him further in the garage

  If there’s still a garage on the hill / on the planet / when I get back. From Asia.

  If I could even remember his name or his face / or find him /

  When I was ten / perhaps he exists in some form.

  With a belly and a belt and an auto

  Whatever his last name / I never knew / in the phonebook / the Akashic records.

  I’ll write my Inspiration for all Mankind to remember,

  My Idea, the secret cave / in the clothes closet / that house probably down /

  Nothing to go back to / everything’s gone / only my idea

  that’s disappearing / even in dreams / gray dust piles / instant annihilation

  of World War II and all its stainless steel shining-mouthed cannons

  much less me and my grammar school kisses / I never kissed in time /

  and go on kissing in dream and out on the street / as if it were for ever.

  No forever left! Even my oldest forever gone, in Bangkok, in Benares,

  swept up with words and bodies / all into the brown Ganges /

  passing the burning grounds and / into the police state.

  My mind, my mind / you had six feet of Earth to hoe /

  Why didn’t you remember and plant the seed of Law and gather the sprouts of What?

  the golden blossoms of what idea? If I dream that I dream /what dream

  should I dream next? Motorcycle rickshaws / parting lamp shine / little taxis / horses’ hoofs

  on this Saigon midnight street. Angkor Wat ahead and the ruined city’s old Hindu faces

  and there was a dream about Eternity. What should I dream when I wake?

  What’s left to dream, more Chinese meat? More magic Spells? More youths to love before I change & disappear?

  More dream words? This can’t go on forever. Now that I know it all /

  goes whither? For now that I know I am dreaming /

  What next for you Allen? Run down to the Presidents Palace full of Morphine /

  the cocks crowing / in the street. / Dawn trucks / What is the question?

  Do I need sleep, now that there’s light in the window?

  I’ll go to sleep. Signing off until / the next idea / the moving van arrives empty

  at the Doctor’s house full of Chinese furniture.

  Saigon, May 31-June 1, 1963

  Angkor Wat

  Angkor—on top of the terrace

  in a stone nook in the rain

  Avalokitesvara faces everywhere

  high in their stoniness

  in white rainmist

  Slithering hitherward paranoia

  Banyans trailing

  high muscled tree crawled

  over the roof its big

  long snaky toes spread

  down the lintel’s red

  cradle-root

  elephantine bigness

  Buddha I take my refuge

  bowing in the black bower

  before the openhanded lotus-man

  sat crosslegged

  and riding in the rain in the

  anxious motorcycle putting

  in the wetness my shirt

  covered with green plastic

  apron shivering

  and throat choking

  with upsurge

  of stroke fear

  cancer Bubonic

  heart failure

  bitter stomach juices

  a wart growing on my rib

  Objection! This can’t be

  Me!

  What happens to me when I get high

  The echo of Sitaram, Sitaram Hindu

  fears—eat no meat or vomit

  the body—warnings in dream bearded

  Das Thakur—obsessed

  with meat, smoking, ganja

  sex, cannibal spies, Propagation

  of this Skin, thin

  vegetable soups, they was

  all Chinese eating pigs, was seven

  slanteyes watching me drink tea

  till I saluted the Buddha-baby in

  the cloth flowered pram

  sucking its chubby plum

  Music from Walt Disney hearts and roses

  sweet violins—

  yellow skins landing on the green

  vegetable planet—

  seven children with identical haircuts

  very polite, saluting

  clasped hand bow—

  the Fear ordering peas in the French

  restaurant, with whole garlic

  bread cheese and coffee hot

  and

  a

  b

  a

  n

  a

  n

  a to finish the bill on the table

  pink

  p

  o

  n

  k of the rain on the roof tin

  below my shuttered window

  in the neon light a Hotel

  clean tiled room

  U

  n

  d

  e

  r a fan and canopied mosquito net

  All well in this solitude, plenty money

  for a long ride thru the forest in a

  rainy afternoon with

  long hair wet beard

  glasses clouding—and that

  nausea—passing out

  of the Churning of the Ocean

  asuras with teeth fangs

  and fat eared Devas

  with military mustaches

  hanging on to the great Chain Snake

  muscle sandstone railing

  length of the moat-bridge to

  the South Gate, Avalokitesvara’s huge

  many faces in opposite directions

  in high space

  thru which ran new black road

  at the knees of greater trees, one

  needed a haircut, root-hair sprouting

  on branches—thru the forested

  Castle grounds to pathways fallen

  sandstone headless statues

  Damp black bas-relief Dancing Shiva

  or angel lady

  The huge snake roots, the vaster

  serpent arms fallen

  octopus over the roof

  in a square courtyard—curved

  roofcombs looked Dragon-back-stone-scaled

  As frail as stone is, this harder wooden

  life crushing them

  with the cricket-glare and parrot

  squads walking across the roof

  —last nite full moon in misted heaven

  and slow girl dance bent elbow and inspring

  fingers snaking it thru the middle—

  I am afraid where I am

  “I am inert” … “I’m just doing my

  Professional duty” … “I’m scheming

  murders” … “I’m chasing a story”

  I’m not going to eat meat anymore

  I’m taking refuge in the Buddha Dharma Sangha

  Hare Krishna Hare Krishna

  Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

  Hare Rama Hare Rama

  Rama Rama Hare Hare

  who how satisfying in the ocean night

  as the exit of laughing gas,

  or the thrice-real moment of hashish

  or the “ordering men about, playing god,

  without drugs”

  american husbands in sportshirts with clear,

  bright eyes and legs spread in

  the velocipedomotor bripping

  on holiday from US Army Saigon

  streets hotels I hitched

  get polite when you’se a hiker

  “I going to take both sides”

  You have no right being a Hitler repeating that

  Abhaya mudra reassurance

  Palm out flat, patting the airhide

  of earth—

  Nothing but a fa
lse Buddha afraid of

  my own annihilation, Leroi Moi—

  afraid to fail you yet terror those Men

  their tiger pictures and uniforms

  dream to see that Kerouac tiger too—

  Helikopter to— Sh, spies with telescopes

  for seeing the bullets that shoot—

  Leroi I been done you wrong

  I’m just an old Uncle Tom in disguise all along

  afraid of physical tanks.

  and those buzzing headphones in my skull.

  and many a butterfly committed suicide

  its wings to the motheaten flame—

  Agh! I vomited in fear of the forest of ganja meats—

  Eternal Death silliness—Cowards die many times

  Not even afraid to be a Coward—Ashamed only by

  metal voices declaring war on Darkness

  I seen plenty corpses but not them living wound-flowers

  healing split open “mouths” as you see the

  War Correspondent who wanted to Bash China

  Even I wound up with his Titoist anxieties

  Whatever happened to Jeannie Frigididia

  Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy

  radio 20 years behind Cambodia

  Sounds like love is so sweet springtime

  all in my head going down worried

  about changing 100 Reales of meat

  Whatever you think happened to

  Jeannie Frigididia?

  Whatyathink happen to the Frigididy girl?

  You think she’ll be in the Ille Frigididy news?

  Is the Frigididy Universe gonna be awakened?

  Is Leary my laughter?

  Plus ça change tonight from 6 P.M.

  wet handed by meat sex

  drank tea, drank carrot-potato thin soup

  bread cheese coffee peas pies coffee

  pineapple soda

  walked on the rainy. run out of ink

  market

  To write a letter to President Norodom Sihanouk

  to live in the flower-jazz palace at Phnom Penh

  Kingly neutrality enter China for U.P

  from Hong Kong

  write to Eisenhower, politely inquiring

  get China off the hook

  war of races not Marxism in

  Viet Nam Pres. Diem’s Queer picture

  —a spy in the chinese soup

  on the restaurant bench—I being also a

  spy for the Left Consuling

  “Geez that’s a great job yr doing fellers

  keep it up”

  I wish I could fly o’er the leaves of the jungle and not

  get killed see the bamboo stakes

  piercing the foot of the beefy Marine?

  or the bodies Viet Cong piled on the tank

  Vietnamese bosses at Ap Bac battle lost whodunit?

  President’s messages back and forth in French and Charming

  Ike give OK retreat from pregnant belly

  of S.E. Asia,

  Antichinese riots Indonesia—out of the papers—

  not seen Newsweek a week or the Times

  Monsoon riding thru the forest gate faces

  Creepers silence on Ta-Phrom temple halls

  narrow stone walk under sleeping trees—

  rain on Ta-Keo pyramid—perfect faces

  smiling ladies’ fiery headdresses in Thommanom

  till passing the soda stand in forest arbor

  ganja cigarette rolled in Terrasse Supérieur

  rooftower by Ikon

  of Buddha touching Earth

  the burnt out incense sticks in the tipped can

  I straightened and shoes off bowed

  As I rode thru the forest Hari Hindoo and Lord of Mercy

  struggled like Asur-Devas

  with my mind-snake drifting

  motorized under the trees—that

  long road with a dip and slow strange

  rise into the arch of the four-headed

  Smile—gate to the old park

  of Khmer palaces—ancient morphine

  in a room—Garuda bebeaked and wing-sphinxed—

  The many Sphinx-heads with ears on the towers

  Looking around the country seventeen, cheek on eye,

  Bewildered in a hurry in the rain to make

  this City conquered by Chams (upriver

  burning the wooden city) of

  Stone to last in forest

  Even that permanence warped cleaned

  in the Alice in Wonderland giant garden

  of Ta-Phrom—followed

  by the young guardian with a caterpillar

  like green frond in his hair

  —he shrank back a second when I went to

  touch his crown

  And I’m following them naked to the waist

  chinese smooth limbed workmen or darker

  Cambodian cyclist Prisoners cutting the grass

  by the Grand Hotel’s

  cool waiting room with bar and USIS handout

  news-casts only Journals except

  for the State Paper reprinting the Prince

  King’s questionless speech to

  Journalists itching with neon—

  So many grounds to cover the terrors of the day

  All got to do with snakes and only one shy

  tail, I saw disappearing behind a

  rock, slow banded worm—the smiles

  of Avalokitesvara with his big mouth like

  Cambodian Pork Chops—the boys

  and why do I not even faintly desire those

  black silk girls in the alley of this

  clean new tourist city?—

  Ah those Deva faces on the walls of Thommanom!

  Clean eyebrows and smiles of Lady Yore

  Ever Naomi in my ear—a sad case of refusing to

  grow up give birth to die—

  I am Coward in every direction—Coughing

  in the motorcycle trailer seat but

  the beautiful forest hath its rain to

  drown my noises—

  Home to the Needle, further violation

  or is this vegetable smoke and vein warmth

  futile in the light of my friends Pronouncements

  Maybe Gary’ll have the answer! Maybe Jack have

  the Answer? Will the Army answer me,

  or will a clang of bells herald the God Creeley

  To whom I sent postcards of the cold stonebrows—

  in the green—on the spot

  “Blind white mossed gray carved

  blocks of stone noses smiling

  thin lips

  green mossy fronds of giant

  trees, the white drift smoke

  sky

  The millions of familiar

  raindrops dripping in

  floor rock crevasses

  on the broken crown of the

  gray lotus

  The stone benches on the roof

  Snake balustrades

  Buddha’s faces on the

  many towers, the forest snakes

  waiting in the tall trunks of

  wooden trees

  Oh the beautiful pour of the rain noises

  waiting below the money cyclopede

  Motor driver covered with blue plastic

  Angkor

  where I dreamed of trembling to

  write—here again after the

  hot sun, sleeping and dreaming

  2 days ago—back in the wished

  for rain past

  rain on my elbows

  Buddha save me, what am

  I doing here

  again dreamed of this

  This awful stone monument

  being in the streams

  of change or the Clouds

  in the sky—

  Kneeled to the statue on

  Porch

  Saranam Gochamee Catchme quick

  forced with incense—have to

  go down to the

  veloc
ycle

  thru the bat-tower

  again, or out

  in the rain!”

  As might be read for poesy by Olson

  At least moves from perception to obsession

  according to waves of Me-ness

  Still clinging to the Earthen straw

  My eye

  Confused with this blue sky cloud drift

  “illusion” over the treetops

  dwelling in my mind “frightened aging nagging flesh”

  To step out of—? Who, Me?

  Just a lot of words and propaganda

  I been spreading getting scared

  of my own bullshit

  Except when faced with my confusion

  words meat / death

  mind-soup

  eaten last night, greedily fried macaroni

  with rare beef—all the children

  scream at my long awkward hair,

  On the bed as I ached and strained my

  sphincter opened hoped

  to get next time befucked by

  a Cambodian sweet policeman

  from the bicycle first day

  who had Lord Buddha’s lips as on

  the towers—all alike many boys—the Monks

  of Lolei, smoking and eating beef,

  touched my toes and my beard pulled

  by the shaven kid in yellow

  Nandi the bull waiting her owner in the Sun

  The house crumbling and Vishnu’s arms

  broken, heads off the seated

  statues

  bat families hanging upside down in the

  door beams’ cracks—Chinese families

  overrunning the earth like greeneyed children of

  Science-fiction—Shall I blow

  them up, Professor?—and

  O Leaf of Buddha! when we get to

  the green planets will we fight

  the strange snaky races of—

  Cancer Overpopulation

  It’s a pyramid of faces—Sphinx-Avalokitesvara

  all mixed up, I hope Buddha’s been there,

  Then we’ll know if his mind appeared

  in all the directions of Space—

  The Pope died a saint to be dissolved in

  his Christ

  Philip Lamantia prophesied truly, all but

  Mao Tze Tung loved Pope John

  Except those newspaper Catholics in Saigon

  He didn’t change their plans yet—

  A walk, past the Saigon Market, where

  There’s a few brass Buddhas for

  shop sale in the North Wing

  Crost the big traffic circle between the Shell

  gas signs, where at nite the troop

  Cops got in buses to go to Hué

  Where telephones spoke blisters