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The Blog Bog
The Mag Rack
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rhythmic old hippie poem
holy the bop apocalypse
-ginsberg
i
this is a hippie poem.
about future lusts past loves, monomania...
( you be so beautiful! you be so you be you)
ii
over shoulders in subway cars, i look for cleavage.
if i can hold the pole, i read poetry, otherwise other people's newspapers. i dont have any
newspapers. i don't buy newspapers
because the world is falling apart, and there is only so much junk
i can brush off my shoulders. i want to keep the dandruff, not the ash, i want the dandruff
to fall like manna from heaven, on to my books, on to my knees.
iii
nothing new in the paper today. shoulders tell the story. subway cars are filled with
screams of stories but only i can hear them.
when i was in kindergarden i covered my ears but have learned now not to screamback. and
those who scratch in private places will throw you in the shrink cage. everything is in
terminal decline.
everyone is moribund. the bund is moribund. racism cops kill blacks and turn to other
racism cops who swear to it. god bless america.
the trick is to solve the little issues. the big ones not only are owned by the rich, they are
protected by the prevailing winds. god bless the prevailing winds. the rich are a facade.
underneath the facade is money. under the money is us. the little issues will snap at your
ass and keep you busy.
iv
nothing new in the paper today. murder rape and corporate theft abide in the churches and
synogogues of white americ; form is becoming formless. good form even more so, my way
or the highway has replaced the stars and stripes forever and a day.
i prefer don't tread on me. does that make me a masochist?
v
nothing new in the papers today. so what if it's not a song. snotty ignorant grubby muthas
are reported to be in washington. and i am shocked. even the asylums wouldn't take me. i
showed them. i used a dictionary. i was tested on a puzzie uzi. green with blood strpes. i
hurt my shoulder and someone cried. keep weed illegal. it's
expensive enough. i was never a part of any scene.
(the new york scene, the union scene, the san francisco scene,
i was in the dubuque airport scene once)
vi
heads fucked up: snots: some great poets with love and humility
and also the other. (translate that, mothers, into known language)
i read nothing but poetry.nothing new in the papers tomorrow.
vii
marianne moore is in common with corso and berrigan. poets dig and scratch for word and
word. gush wordsthen pick through the yuk. i loved ballantine india pale ale in the green
bottle.it's gone with the heart of america. the heart of american is mortgaged to
frankenstein republicans. of course it was good, so it is gone.
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viii
(a six pack and i almost killed one of my children doodling up the highway on route 32 on
the way to the newburgh pork store
to buy no nitrite bacon where later on i also bought a wholelamb
spitted it over a huge pit of whitehot coals after slathering it with
garlic because well it was beginning to need slather with garlic and turned it for hours and
ate in in the barn the whole community.
ix
i am a delicate shit, don't fuck with me, argentina. (song, here)
i can throw bombs on kikes, niggers, spics, catholics, protestants, whites of both sexes as
well as others of both sexes and be proud to be american. i want the absolute right to carry
two guns and eat popcorn.
x
i love movies. my imagination is sucked into the celluloid.
i become the movie, an out-of-body movie, sticky popcorn all over the floor doesn't keep me
down. but the movies died with america
many years ago. two westerns, a jillion cartoons, movietone news, and a serial. gone along
with...nothing in thenewspapers today but ads.
xi
i also love fiction and non-fiction (non-fiction is also fiction which my father never fully
understood) (which of course is why the gap was there we loved and loved and loved, and i
willed and willed and will, but we were different)
xii
the army fed a cousin when he was a boy. he loved the army and it hurt him. he still loved
it. dwight the right de-somethinged him. he once had a nash rambler. (i also loved the nash
rambler)
xiii
i love gully jimson. i love the rasp of lousy voice of holy billy holiday. jazz loosens my
sinews. hardens things, too. i drink islay single malt and hear it.
as it is 3:16 a fucking morning, i didn't want to wake up the devils again. they got me up
before. the devils made me do it. i loved it.
xiv
bukowski is the only poet with warts on his zits. don't believe the propaganda. it's america
and it is hard to get around thati have favorites go out and use the polite words for
politicians like thief, shithead, self-aggrandizer, mouthie punks, that's better than
misleading titles.
xv
Gaddafi was stashing 63 billion dollars here in the land of the free
and the home of the suck-ups and What-Ho White-Ho. we have just discovered this. the
scots let a murderer go in the land of calvin. calvin is now a tweetie bird.read my poem
about neitsche and socrates published in stvitus.
xvi
a word program is easier than a typewriter fuck nostalgia.
cigarettes ale and more cigarettes and black coffee weren't bad
along with the sounds of pulling that sheet off the platen.
but when i'm exceedingly more or less, i can enlarge the type and laugh my ass off. and yes,
misspellings were easier to blame on god,then.
sleep well.
colemanden
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