Nobody knows that I make big plans
I show Madagascar leaders how to dance
How to read statistics & wear striped pants
Emotional statistics that’s not my job
Facts & figures, I’m no slob
But foresting & farming’s all a big blob
Here’s our scheme to stabilize your paper
for International trade right now or later
Follow our advice you’ll thank your creator
Whatcha got to export, what raw materials?
Monoculture diamonds, coffee, Cereals
Sell ’em on the market to Multinational Imperials
We’ll loan you money to expand production
Pay our yearly interest, for your own protection
Tighten your belts, we’ll have no objection
Throw in some little minimal principle
tho debt service paid makes the deal invincible
That takes dollars but your currency’s exchangeable
Get people working on mass market land
cut down forests, for your cash in hand
Or superhighways money where Rainforests stand
With agribusiness farms you can export beef
Cut social services & poverty relief
Forest people shift to the cities in grief
Tighten your belt for a roller coaster ride
Production’s up, market prices slide
Wood pulp burger meat, coffee downside
Increase production pay yr. World Bank debt—
At least the interest if that’s all you can get
Cut down Amazon you haven’t paid it yet
In one decade you give all the money back
As Bank debt service but the Principal, alack!
We’ll lend more cash (but dont sell smack)
Austerity measures, wages go down,
th’urban sewage is a charnel ground
Buses fall apart at the edge of town
coral reef fish dead factory waste,
Indigines hooked on Yankee dollar taste
Swiss bank funds for dictators disgraced
Fauna killed for the debt Costa Rica
Unknown flora at the mouth of Boca Chica
Birds in Equador, sick with toxic leakage?
Riots start over bags of foreign rice
Arm your teenage army with U.S. mace
Borrow money for a local Arms race
Families driven from crop land to forests
Forest folk in hovels hid from tourists
Currencies bankrupt for free market purists?
I just retired from my 20 year job
at World Bank Central with the money mob
Go to AA meetings so’s not die a slob
I worked in Africa, Americas, Vietnam
Bangkok too with World Banks’ big clan
Now I’m retired and I don’t give a damn
Walk the streets of Washington alone at night
The job I did, was it wrong was it right?
Big mistakes that’ve gone out of sight?
It wasn’t the job of a bureaucrat like me
to check the impact of the Bank policy
When debt bore fruit on the world money tree.
February 1997
Richard III
Toenail-thickening age on me,
Sugar coating my nerves, leg
muscles lacking blood, weak kneed
Heart insufficient, a thick’d valve-wall,
Short of breath, six pounds
overweight with water—
logged liver, gut & lung—up at 4 A.M.
reading Shakespeare.
February 4, 1997, 4:03 A.M., NYC
Death & Fame
When I die
I don’t care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter ’em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B’nai Israel Cemetery
But I want a big funeral
St. Patrick’s Cathedral, St. Mark’s Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan
First, there’s family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear’d, sister-in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren.
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan—
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya’s ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche there, Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami,
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi’s phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loori, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchin—
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
“He taught me to meditate, now I’m an old veteran of the thousand day retreat—”
“I played music on subway platforms, I’m straight but loved him he loved me”
“I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone”
“We’d lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other”
“I’d always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor”
“Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master”
“We’d talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
sleep in his captain’s bed.”
“He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy”
“I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips—”
“All I did was lay back eyes closed, he’d bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist”
“He gave great head”
So there be gossip from loves of 1946, ghost of Neal Cassady commingling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise—“You too? But I thought you were straight!”
“I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me,”
“I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly, on my prick, tickled with his tongue my behind”
“I loved the way he’d recite ‘But at my back always hear/time’s winged chariot hurrying near,’ heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow—”
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
“I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat,
seduced me didn’t want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to …”
“He couldn’t get it up but loved me,” “A clean old man,” “He made sure I came first”
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor—
Then poets & musicians—college boys’ grunge bands—age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical conductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trumpeters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger
fiddlers with dobro tambourine harmonica mandolin autoharp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60’s India, late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massachusetts surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate bibliophiles, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex
“I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist”
“Nervous breakdown after
menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals”
“Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink dishes, my studio guest a week in Budapest”
Thousands of readers, “Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois”
“I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet—”
“He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City”
“Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City”
“Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston 1982”
“I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there”
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors’ secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatniks & Deadheads, autographhunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of “History” except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive
February 22, 1997
Sexual Abuse
“A Nation of Finks”
—W. S. Burroughs
A voice in the kitchen light:
Sexual abuse should not be
rewarded with a wink
Sexshual abuse should not be
revarded mit a vink
Re Boston-Herald headline “Sexual Abuse Law Targets Clergy”
“Senator: Religious leaders must report child molesters”
Priests should turn each other in, fink—
So, say it in the confession box, not
over sherry at intimate dinner.
February 26, 1997, 6 A.M.
Butterfly Mind
The mind is like a butterfly
That lights upon a rose
or flutters to a stinky feces pile
swoops into smoky bus exhaust
or rests upon porch chair, a flower breathing
open & closed balancing a Tennessee breeze—
Flies to Texas for a convention
spring weeds in fields of oil rigs
Some say these rainbow wings have soul
Some say empty brain
tiny automatic large-eyed wings
that settle on the page.
January 29, 1997, 2:15 A.M., NYC
A fellow named Steven
A fellow named Steven
went to look for God
on a street that’s even
and a street that’s odd
A lifestyle clean
with music and wife
A golden mean
For a heavenly life
He went to the city
Tried all tricks
Sadness & pity
many highs, many kicks
Saved by music
Books & dance bands,
Generous, correct
Taught class, steady hands
Married, had a boy
Whom he sang into life
He’ll long enjoy
His Child & Wife
Air Shuttle Boston—N.Y.
March 4, 1997, 5 P.M. in milky sky
Half Asleep
Moved six months ago left it behind for Peter
He’d been in Almora when we bought it,
an old blanket, brown Himalayan wool
two-foot-wide long strips of light cloth
bound together with wool strings
That after 3 decades began to loosen
Soft familiar with use in Benares & Manhattan
I took it in my hands, searched to match the seams,
fold them, sew together as I thought
But myself, being ill, too heavy for my arms,
Leave it to housekeeper’s repair
it disappeared suddenly in my hands—
back to the old apartment
where I’d let go half year before
March 7, 1997
Objective Subject
It’s true I write about myself
Who else do I know so well?
Where else gather blood red roses & kitchen garbage
What else has my thick heart, hepatitis or hemorrhoids—
Who else lived my seventy years, my old Naomi?
and if by chance I scribe U.S. politics, Wisdom
meditation, theories of art
it’s because I read a newspaper loved
teachers skimmed books or visited a museum
March 8, 1997, 12:30 A.M.
Kerouac
I can’t answer,
reason I can’t answer
I haven’t been dead yet
Don’t remember dead
I’m on 14th St & 1st Avenue
Vat’s the qvestion?
March 12, 1997
Hepatitis Body Itch …
Hepatitis
Body itch
nausea
hemorrhage
tender Hemorrhoids
High Blood
Sugar, low
leaden limbs
lassitude
bed rest
shit factory
this corpse
cancer
March 13, 1997
Whitmanic Poem
We children, we
school boys,
girls in America
laborers, students
dominated by lust
March 18, 1997
American Sentences 1995–1997
I felt a breeze below my waist and realized that my fly was open.
April 20, 1995
* * *
Sitting forward elbows on knees, oh what luck! to be able to crap!
April 17, 1995
“That was good! that was great! That was important!” Standing to flush the toilet.
June 22, 1995
Relief! relief! O Boy O Boy! That was necessary, wash behind!
January 18, 1997
“A good shit is worth a thousand dollars if your purse can afford it.”
February 10, 1997, 5 A.M.
Heard at every workplace—obnoxious slogan: “Shit or get off the pot!”
January 24, 1997
How did I know? How did my ass know? Suddenly, go to the bathroom!
March 10, 1997
* * *
Château d’Amboise
Sun setting on their faces the diners chatter over plates of duck.
June 22, 1995
Baul Song
“Oh my mad mind, my mad mind, where’ve you been all my life, my old mad mind?”
October 7, 1996
The three-day-old kitchen fly’s flown into my bedroom for company.
December 9, 1996
“Hi-diddly-Dee, a poet’s life for me,” Gregory Corso sang in Paris sniffing H.
January 16, 1997
Chopping apples for the fruit compote—suffer, suffer, suffer, suffer!
January 24, 1997
Courageous little lemon with so many pits! sliced into the pot.
January 25, 1997
The young dog—he jumped out the TV tube stood still then barked for supper.
January 26, 1997
Stupid of me, stupid of me, just dumb plain stupid ass! Where’s my pen?
February 19, 1997, 2:45 A.M.
My father dying of Cancer, head drooping, “Oy kindelach.”
February 24, 1997
Whatcha do about little girls who want to play Horsey on my knee?
March 10, 1997
“Hey Buster! Whatcha looking at me like that for?” in the Bronx subway.
March 10, 1997, 2:45 A.M.
To see Void vast infinite look out the window into the blue sky.
March 23, 1997
Variations on Ma Rainey’s See See Rider
“I’ve been down at the bus stop
Buy my jellyroll there br />
If I can’t sell it in Memphis
you can
buy it in Eau St. Claire.
See See Rider
you got me
in your chair
But if I have
my fanny
can sell it anywhere
See what I want today
yes yes yes
Need a man who
really can do
anything I say
Do that for me
Then I
guess I
won’t go way.
Go way go way go way from here
look for all old gray home
I can live by myself and
ring my telephone
Dirty pictures on my new TV
Just now turned them on
I don’t need you and your
mamma’s long time gone
March 3, 1997
Sky Words
Sunrise dazzles the eye
Sirens echo tear thru the sky
Taxi klaxons echo the street
Broken car horns bleat bleat bleat
Sky is covered with words
Day is covered with words
Night is covered with words
God is covered with words
Consciousness covered with words
Mind is covered with words
Life & Death are words
Words are covered with words
Lovers are covered with words
Murders are covered with words
Spies are covered with words
Governments covered with words
Mustard gas covered with words
Hydrogen Bombs covered with words
World “News” is words
Wars are covered with words
Secret police covered with words
Starvation covered with words
Mothers bones covered with words
Skeleton Children made of words
Armies are covered with words
Money covered with words
High Finance covered with words
Poverty Jungles covered with words
Electric chairs covered with words
Screaming crowds are covered with words
Tyrant radios covered with words