And swings around right around
the fender okay
Orizaba rooftop, Orizaba Rooftop,
Blue, blue, blue
Blue’s made of shiny everyway
Orizaba honk-honk, bus motors
Riding high for the clutch, tired,
Faces green on the benches,
Ikons in the corner
Tails of little fenelet
serpents hanging from the fender
Aik, motorcycle of no-cops,
Hotrods & Deans of Mexico,
Aik, aik, aik Mexico
BORRACHO GUAPO BANJO
62ND CHORUS
Pipestoon the Ribber & wobbed
old ladies of shame. the same.
party twan twit Twittenden
Charley, ‘Awfully good fuck!’
he yells out the train window,
to his waving host of the weekend,
‘I say old chap, really!!’
and then Commando Poltroon
comes platooning up in mudsplash,
Monty, examining every commando
standing naked in the rain,
‘That hurt?’ whacking
a guy on the rib, ‘No
sir,’ ‘Why not?’
‘Commando, sir’
Finally he comes to a man
with a long hardon, & whacks
it with his military crop
—with his baton—
‘That hurt?’ ‘No sir’
“Why not?”
“Man behind me sir.”
63RD CHORUS
The star is reflected in the puddle
and the star dont care
and the puddle dont care
Nothing is thinking
not even the puddle poet
That’s why “This Thinking Has Stopped”
Is the best way I know to imitate
this starry state of affairs
in puddles
Plass! plash!—wait a minute!—
wait a second buddy while I
hock up old Desroches three
sacrifices
For each sacrifice you’re reborn
and you’re only reborn once
because there is only One
Sin
Slatter me pet Charley, T-rod,
pettle pole and all, believes,
and goes rosing in the woods
Purt! Foley! Words! Names!
Ahab, Starbuck & Pip
Iago and Poltroon
and Pipestaff the Ribber
—pain, pain, the no-name retoin
64TH CHORUS
On the street I seen three guys
standing talking quietly in the sun
and suddenly one guy leaps in pain
and whacks his fingers in the air
as he’s burned his hand
with a match
lighting a butt
The other two guys dont even
know this,
they go right on talking
gesticulating with hands
I seen it, it was on San Jose
Boulevard in St Joseph
Missouri, nineteen thirty
two
Them guys didnt even realize
pain is one thing, everywhere?
Whai? Every golden
sweetgirl come & befawdle
her pillow in my hair
and I dont care?
Wha?
65TH CHORUS
JEWISH GOY IN N.Y.
Wha? Whaddayou mean,
there are ten thousands mysteries
of me by the millions standing
with hand-molded shows
and sports jacket
and no hair
bouncing along in one long corridor
of images in a mirror
into infinity
eternity
call it what you will!
I know that!—You dont have
pull that Buddha-stuff
on me, Jack, I dont care
I’ve seen me in the picture
stretched out everywhere
it dont matter?
Who cares!
I go to Lefty’s & eat pastrami
on Sunday afternoon,
with mustard—I go hear
some music at Carnegie Hall
—I lay my wife—
I sit on the bed, work
Who cares? Wha?
What’s the moon got?
66TH CHORUS
What’s the moon got but tunes?
Wha? I dont care I’ll talk
I’ll stand right here talk
till doomsday, nobody care,
nobody say, who knows? who
wants? What’s gonna free
what from what? Shit!
What you will, call it,
shit, I’ll sit, I’ll talk,
I’ll hang all day, because,
it doesnt matter, you talk
about it doesnt matter
but you dont realize how
doesnt-matter
it really doesnt-matters,
Wow man, I mean,
Sure, shoes, Shows, Hand
painted molds from azimuth
shoes, azipeth azipor
azinine blues, you got,
who cares, tsawright, eat,
pickles in the barrel—
—hail a cab—
do what you want
67TH CHORUS
“It all goes down the same hole”
said Allen, eating cake & food
in a restaurant, with milk
in his coffee, no milk in the can,
no sense in the sour bottom
of that can
All goes up the same sky,
all sucks on same air,
all plops drops impregnates
and saves anywhere
The same limitation gentiles
the crave for a show
on notwithstanding lost bibles
dedicating the mystery
to a vain empty show,
‘Vanity of Vanities,
All is Vanity’
“Behold her breasts are like
fawns”
in the summer air,
Her eyes are like doves,
skin like the tents
—Skin like the rents
in the heavenly air
68TH CHORUS
A murder stern gird
A million dollar ba by
Ack
Rowers of galleys,
Candle lights,
Hearners of yorn,
Parturient ones,
Poo,
Patch art part tea
Gart and band thee
Harden thy garkle
And get ye no purple kirtles
Ere aye mice Burns
Hands Mc Caedmon let loose
His last tired crazy pom
‘Hung la terre,
hang the twarrie,
part de twaklockleme,
gockle somackle magee’
Down with the back rooms
Of Dublin
69TH CHORUS
PRAYER
God, protect me!
See that I dont defecate
on the Holy See
See that I dont
murder the bee
God! be kind!
Free all your dedicate
angels, for me
Or if not for me
for anybody
God! Hold fast!
I’m dying in your arms
delicately
Ah God be merciful
to Princeton me
Ah God, alack a God,
nobody farms
amnesty
70TH CHORUS
I
There’ll be no more ginger ale
for me
goodbye ginger ale
when I die
in Innisfree
That’s where I’ll go to die
to look and die
I’ll never go there now
Because I’ve already told the boys
at the paper
the sound is crashing me
And they ate paper
And it was a paper party
But when the bell bonged toll,
And we all had to pay,
“Die in my arms, lamb,”
sang Rudy Vallee
from here to eternity
Die in my that’s a beautiful arms,
lad,
Die in my that’s a beautiful arms,
said God
To me
71ST CHORUS
II
That’s just something
that isnt written
in Wells’ history
That’s something, Window Knock,
when you can make me
pray me
That’ll do the reading
in London Library
And in Dublin I is free
To read
Old Innisfree
And then I’ll read Finn
Again, and meet Magee
In a back alley
And get to know
Donnelly
And the brothers Donnelly
That’s where I’ll be,
My Arma Carney,
I’ll be dyin
down in Innisfree
Waiting for ye
Mary Carney
ORLANDA BLUES
1ST CHORUS
Le corp de la verité
pourre dans la terre
The body of truth
rots in the earth
nourriture dans la terre
Sanchez fourwinds bigtown,
dont wail that at me
Fraserville Quebec
comes back to me
In the night sun sleep
warm, store it in tanks
Blues of Old Virginia tree
moonbottles over kiss time
listener appeal
Kissland
Kissimee Florida
These are Orlanda Blues
2ND CHORUS
O Cross on my wall
O body of Christ
When I was awright
Saturday night
Little in your arms
your thousands of years
In electric resist I wanted
to soul the liking I saw
—words
(musician pauses)
3RD CHORUS
This book is too nice for me
They made Clay Felker editor
of Esquire
Or Rust Hills one
and what ever happened to glass
and the joke about the Lord.
The Lord is my Agent.
My message is blah blah blah
My yort tackalitwingingly
pasta vala tt, yea, p,
my reurnent gollagigle
dil plat most-rat, my
erneealieing cralmaa
tooth, ant, mop, sh,
my devoid less 2 immensity
secret muzning midnight,
my whatzit
you wanta
know
Whatzit!
Joy Look out!
4TH CHORUS
Joy look in,
look in,
the pretty
sin
Loy, t a tt ct b
I fooled with the long
overload
(wrong over road?)
wronk
What a moistious wronk
we’re in fair words,
or is it wairds
in your part
of the
Kelp,
Laird
In Scotland we just throw
the bones to the dogs
& toast at the
fireplace
5TH CHORUS
Well then let’s have a toast
I wonder if I can write
poems just like Gregory
Croso:—let’s see:—
The dead are dead,
I’ll resurrect them with
this song, O fall
you fair held
cities—
(wood wood wood)
O held the fair held
in the skinny bar!
(the skinny bar held Indian sonofabitch)
So North Mood wrote:—
Colting—The Gregory
says “Eels & gripplings
in
my
eaves”
6TH CHORUS
Finally I was in Stockholm at last
Cold night
Dark in Swedenborg
Zeldipeldi my junkey friend
from N.Y. and Maldo
Saldo the hot trumpeter
from Nigeria, turned on
in the cold room overlooking
black rooftops of winter,
Sweden night skies February,
Ommani pahdme horn
I wanted to catch a train
to the Capital
I was on a seacoast town,
the name of it was Fidel
or Fido
wow, mominu,
You dont know how far
that sky
go
7TH CHORUS
Message from Orlanda:—
You guys cant explore
all of outer space, unless
you want to spend
a million million million
million million million
billion billion bullion
bullion years at it
—and when you gets
there, and you cant
even get there, give my
regards to Captain Bligh
And lissen, before you leave,
how bringin my money
with you to preserve
in eternity, see, I
can cash in when
I get there & spend it
on
space
travel
8TH CHORUS
Thats awright, space’ll carry
us maybe like little eggs,
the buggy children work
their way out
to the surface
of the egg,
to the shell,
they swim soft,
& they get there
& meet God
The Shell
The Shell
hard & cold
against the cold
gray sun
blood
in
your
Father’s
Long Winter
Underwear
So sleep
9TH CHORUS
Me, I’m worried I’m a secret sinner
and God
Ole Tangerine
I call Him
because one day I was settin
under trees
in
a
chair
And deciding what name
to give to God, is it
a personal God? & blam
the little tangerine
landed
squarely
on my
head
like Newton’s
underwear,
& so I saw it personal
And I say the moral is simple
10TH CHORUS
But it landed right on the
tippy tiptop
of the sconce,
Jazz,
dazz,
and that’s why I believe
(since it’s all grinning
in there)
it was a little
tap reminder
I dont need thunderclouds!
“Maybe Eden aint so
lonesome as New England
used to be,” said Emily
Dickinson sitting with
a tangerine in her hand
(They shipped it from Cuba)
It was a great show
Gasser!
11TH CHORUS
I guess God is alright
He’ll take care of us
But there are perturbing roots
in these trees,
that claw in earth
& outa fingernails
as long as Malaya
eat up thru sucktubes
the juice of the mother
Terra Firma
Mona Leisure
& these roots remind you
of the roots in your grave
I wish I could be cremated
& sprung
(to the wave),
but Ah, hell, I donno
I think I’ll go to
Sapplewhile
& idle away the
unfinished poem
12TH CHORUS
The evening silencius
Poetry
is so pretty
When you silence it like that
It’s nice to pop pearl pages
the candlelight, you know,
is dedicated to poets