Book of Blues Read online

  More numerous even (& the number

  of beings!)

  Than all the rocks that cracked

  And became little rocks

  In all that rib of rock

  That extends from Alaska,

  Nay the Aleutian tips,

  Down through these High Cascades,

  Through to California & Ensenada,

  Down, through High Tepic, down

  To Tehuantepec, down,

  The rib, to Guatemala & on,

  Colombia, Andes, till the High

  Bottom Chilean & Tierra

  del Fuego

  O yoi yoi

  And on around to Siberia—

  In other words, & all the grains

  of sand that comprise

  A rock, and all the grains

  of atomstuff therein,

  More worlds than that

  in the empty blue sea

  We hang in, upsidedown,

  —Too much to be real

  10TH CHORUS

  But it’s real

  it’s as real as the squares

  on this page

  And as real as my sore ass

  sitting on a rock

  And as real as hand, sun,

  pencil, knee,

  Ant, breezed, stick,

  water, tree, color,

  peeop, birdfeather,

  snag, smoke,

  haze, goat,

  appearance

  and low crazed cloud

  And dream of the Far Northwest

  And the little mounted policeman

  Of my dreams on a ridge—

  Not an Indian in sight—

  Real, real as fog in London town

  and croissants in Paris

  and swchernepetchzels

  in Prienna

  And Praha Maha Fuckit

  —Real, real,

  unreal,

  deal,

  Zeal,

  I say, dont care if it’s real

  or unreal, I’se

  11TH CHORUS

  And if you dont like the tone

  of my poems

  You can go jump in the lake.

  I have been empowered

  to lay my hand

  On your shoulder

  and remind you

  That you are utterly free,

  Free as empty space.

  You dont have to be famous,

  dont have to be perfect,

  Dont have to work,

  dont have to marry,

  Dont have to carry burdens,

  dont have to gnaw & kneel,

  the taste

  of rain—

  Why kneel?

  Dont even have to sit,

  Hozomeen,

  Like an endless rock camp

  go ahead & blow,

  Explode & go,

  I wont say nothin,

  neither this rock,

  And my outhouse doesnt care,

  And I got no body

  12TH CHORUS

  Little weird flower,

  why did you grow?

  Who planted you

  on this god damned hill?

  Who asked you to grow?

  Why dont you go?

  What’s wrong with yr. orange tips?

  I was under the impression

  that you were sposed to be

  some kind of perfect nature.

  Oh, you are?

  Just jiggle in the wind. I see.

  At yr feet I see a nosegay

  bou kay

  Of seven little purple apes

  who dint grow so high

  And a sister of yours

  further down the precipice—

  and your whole family

  to the left—

  I thot last week

  you were funeral bouquets

  for me

  that never askt

  to be born

  or die

  But now I guess

  I’m just talkin

  thru my

  empty head

  ORIZABA 210 BLUES

  1ST CHORUS

  Ah monstrous

  sweet monsters,

  who spawned

  thee chalk?

  God? Who

  Godded me?

  Who me’d

  God, chalk’d

  Thought, &

  Me sank

  Down

  To

  Fall

  A tché tché tcha

  hoot ee

  Wheet wha you—

  Sweet monstranot love

  By momma dears

  Hey

  Call God the Mother

  To stop this fight

  2ND CHORUS

  Someday you’ll be lying

  there in a nice trance

  and suddenly a hot

  soapy brush will be

  applied to your face

  —it’ll be unwelcome

  —someday the

  undertaker’ll shave you

  *

  I almost called these poems

  Pickpocket Blues

  because they are the repetition

  by memory

  of earlier poems

  stolen from me

  by twelve thieves

  3RD CHORUS

  Ah monster sweet monster

  Who spawned all this God

  A Marva Ah Marvaila

  Ah Marva Marvay

  Ah marve Ah Me

  Ah John O Ah John

  Oka John—

  Where do you worka

  John—Ah John,

  How do you William the

  Conqueror this morning

  With your height old otay

  —Nay, sight less worse,

  Urp, the spur that did nape

  At the wick the whack

  Of the horse’s piniard, urt,

  So up heaved Pegasus

  To rape the Sirens

  And Black Bastards Hold Out their Arms

  4TH CHORUS

  One was called Boston Kitty—

  He was a one-whack artist

  Hold down the rope & the boy

  And slip his villons i the store

  —Oy—

  This turp then, he was smart,

  His wife was bloomer-hiding

  Dress-thief, best, New York,

  —Oir—

  Ay

  May the Wild Queen that Whanged

  All the men with pipes

  And ironingboard trays, i the

  Movie bout paird?—

  Waird!

  Haird all about it in Dawson

  Lass night, boys was tellin

  The stove of the night

  Hair—Robert Olson

  Me that, Mrs Blake

  5TH CHORUS

  Pollyanna me that, Matt

  Baker me Mary me Eddy

  somethin bout life,—

  Feed me T bone steaks

  Off cows was allowed

  Was allowed to be et

  By men and maids

  And Pomfranet

  Poignardi me that,

  hurt,—slip me the knife

  in the chest, het—

  they’ll cut off my arms

  and my losen legs

  And my Peter Orlovsky

&
nbsp; Clasel soul shall say:

  Oido me no mo

  6TH CHORUS

  Ah moidnous two movies

  Was railroad and et

  Ah turpitude & turpentine

  And serpentine & pine

  Ah me star-veil

  that I see

  Majesticking mightily

  on the rail

  Of heaven-hailward

  high’s moitang

  Montana, me mountain,

  Me Madonna, me high

  Me most marvelous marvel

  That held over the pie

  Me sky of the Denver

  Platte alley below

  Me that me, me that me,

  Me that me no more

  7TH CHORUS

  Brang!—blong!—trucks

  Break glass i the dog barking

  Street—dwang, wur,

  Ta ta ta

  ta ta

  Me that was weaned in the

  heaven’s machine

  Me that was wailed

  in the wild bar

  called fence

  Me that repeated & petered

  The meter & lost 2 cents

  Me that was fined

  To be hined

  And refined

  Ay

  Me that was

  Whoo ee

  The owl

  On the fence

  8TH CHORUS

  Me that was eyed

  And betied by the eyes

  In the glasses, In the Place,

  In the night, brown beer,

  Me that was maitled

  And draitled and dragged

  Me that was xarmined

  By Murder Machree

  Me that was blarnied

  By Mary Carney

  Me that was loved

  Me that was hay

  Me that the sunshine

  Burned out every day

  Me that was spotted

  And beshatted

  By Marcus Magee

  9TH CHORUS

  Hey listen you poetry audiences

  If you dont shut up

  And listen to the potry,

  See, we’ll get a guy at the gate

  To bar all potry haters

  Forevermore

  Then, if you dont like the subject

  Of the poem that the poit

  Is readin, geen, why dont

  You try Marlon Brando

  Who’ll open your eyes

  With his cry

  James Dean is dead?—

  Aint we all?

  Who aint dead—

  John Barrymore is dead

  Naw, San Francisco is dead

  —San Francisco is bleat

  With the fog

  (And the fences are cold)

  10TH CHORUS

  Old, San Francisco so old,

  Shining garden on the end of the gate

  Great plastic garden

  Full of poets and hate

  Fine wild bar place with high

  Flootin dandies, Portugese,

  Philippino, and just plain

  Ole Dandy, Mandy tendin

  The bar in the Brothers McCoy

  On Sixth Street near Mission,

  And Old Whitecap Sailor

  Goes lonely the road

  And Market Street on Sunday

  There’s no body broad

  And O I see cliffside

  With electrical magic

  Message it me gives out

  And sending Einstein

  Me n McCorkle sit there

  Eating in the Dharma

  11TH CHORUS

  We booted and we brained

  Every seedy wet cold hill

  And walked by rubber gardens

  Behind telephones of shame

  And came out mid the flowers

  Of Heaven’s O Gate

  We treed every boner

  Kited and committed

  Longtailed and selffloored

  And worked 78 to Del Monte

  And back

  Crashed Lux Perpetua

  And tied up the mate

  And dumped him down

  In Chinatown

  To Vegetate

  So’s cooks could clew garbage

  And discover entrails

  of babies made by Negresses

  Against fences of taxis

  12TH CHORUS

  Soft!—the mysteries lie

  In Eglantine

  And Tathagata Nous Dit

  Toujours, pas d secour,

  Pas d secour

  Soft—pie-tailed bird-dog

  Sing Song Charley the Poet

  From High Masquerade

  Is about to shake the rain

  From his empty head

  And deliver a blurbery statement

  About bubbles and balloons

  Balloons O balloons

  BALLOONS BALLOONS

  BALLOONS O BALLOONS

  BAL

  LOONS

  BALLOONS

  13TH CHORUS

  When the rain falls on the Concord

  And grapes are growing in New Hampshire

  Mud hides wine bottles of green

  And gay delight—When it rains

  In Mexico, Oi Oi Oi, the swish

  And plump and drenching Zapoteca

  Big fat lump cacti growing in the night

  Slipslop the sleeps of cats by the fence

  And “Alms my youth!” cry women

  To the passing Americano Oi—

  Hate and oido, Old San Francisco’s

  Going to go—

  Red, white and black, and blue

  The pistil was tender when vines

  Hund and daundered explosives

  Of surrealistic pensioners

  Dishrags have faces

  Flashlights have hate

  Pine trees are sweetest

  To sit and meditate

  The Holy Virgin of Heaven

  Saw us in the rainy first morning

  14TH CHORUS

  Lost me Juju beads in the woods

  And stood on dry stumps

  and looked around

  And Lightning Creek morely roared

  And wow the wild Jack Mountain

  Abominable Snowman rooted

  in a stump

  Even throwing football shadow

  When games is ranging in the sky

  Ah Gary,—would sweet Japan

  Her gardens allay me

  And make end sweet perfidy

  —Full belly make you say

  nice things—

  When rice bowl filled, Buddha frown

  I’ the West, because Wall of China

  Has no holds

  Holdfast to temple mountain chain

  Throw away the halfdollars

  Big and round, & wad of gum,

  And flashlight lamp—& paint—

  Go be shaved head monster

  In a cave—No, tea ceremony

  Beneath a sweet pine tree

  (Oi?)

  15TH CHORUS

  The little birds that live on the tree

  In South America

  Under clouds that make faces at me

  Last night beautiful faces

  Mad Dog McGoy of Heaven’s

  White Office, was sheening

  His ocean spray at
me

  With holes for eyes

  And every kind majesty—

  Mocking at faces at me,

  O me,—gingerale we drank

  In Montreal when Errgang was young

  And Wagner bleeded on the dump

  And the dust of defeat perfidy

  Was as fine as it is now

  In the skies of untouchable dust

  And Klings of the rooftop

  Church variety—

  My moity

  16TH CHORUS

  Auro Boralis Shomoheen

  In the ancient blue Buick

  Machine that cankers the highway

  With Alice fat Queens, cards

  Indexes burning, mapping machines,

  Partings sweet sorrow

  But O my patine

  O my patinat pinkplat Mexican

  Canvas for oil in boil

  Marrico—hash marsh m draw

  The greenhouse bong eater from

  fence N’awrleans, that—

  Bat and be ready, Jesus is steady,

  Score’s eight to one, none,

  Bone was the batter for McGoy

  Poy—

  Used as this ditties

  for mopping the kitties

  in dream’s afternoon

  when nap was a drape

  17TH CHORUS

  “Jamac! Jamac!

  De bambi de bambi

  Jamac jamac!”

  And elegant old quorums

  of fortified priests

  sighed

  De bambi de bambi jamac

  Jamac, and eldertwine

  old tweedies fighted the prize

  “Parrac! Motak!

  Pastamak arrac!

  Arrash!

  Crrash!”

  Part art tee

  tea symphony

  ceremonious old bonious

  me love you

  me

  18TH CHORUS

  Henry Regalado, l’hero de la

  Bataille de Patenaud

  God and all the other little people

  Esmack, esmack, I esmacka

  You on the kisser you too

  I thrun nobody oud dis joint

  Since Roosevelt had all his joints

  And Buddy I knowed

  That old Patenaude

  Was a fraude from the start,

  Tonio me Kruger you that,

  Hat—

  Pat was the rat that had the hat

  Mash patinaud

  Crash toutes les shows