for George Schneeman
New York’s lovely weather
hurts my forehead
in praise of thee
the? white dead
whose eyes know:
what are they
of the tiny cloud my brain:
The City’s tough red buttons:
O Mars, red, angry planet, candy
bar, with sky on top,
“why, it’s young Leander hurrying to his death”
what? what time is it in New York in these here alps
City of lovely tender hate
and beauty making beautiful
old rhymes?
I ran away from you
when you needed something strong
then I leand against the toilet bowl (ack)
Malcolm X
I love my brain
it all mine now is
saved not knowing
that &
that (happily)
being that:
“wee kill our selves to propagate our kinde”
John Donne
yes, that’s true
the hair on yr nuts & my
big blood-filled cock are a part in that
too
PART 2
Mister Robert Dylan doesn’t feel well today
That’s bad
This picture doesn’t show that
It’s not bad, too
it’s very ritzy in fact
here I stand I can’t stand
to be thing
I don’t use atop
the empire state
building
& so sauntered out that door
That reminds me of the time
I wrote that long piece about a gangster name of “Jr.”
O Harry James! had eyes to wander but lacked tongue to praise
so later peed under his art
paused only to lay a sneeze
on Jack Dempsey
asleep with his favorite Horse
That reminds me of I buzz
on & off Miró pop
in & out a Castro convertible
minute by minute GENEROSITY!
Yes now that the seasons totter in their walk
I do a lot of wondering about Life in praise of ladies dead of
& Time plaza(s), Bryant Park by the Public eye of brow
Library, Smith Bros. black boxes, Times
Square
Pirogi Houses
with long skinny rivers thru them
they lead the weary away
off! hey!
I’m no sailor
off a ship
at sea I’M HERE
& “The living is easy”
It’s “HIGH TIME”
& I’m in shapes
of shadow, they
certainly can warm, can’t they?
Have you ever seen one? NO!
of those long skinny Rivers
So well hung, in New York City
NO! in fact
I’m the Wonderer
& as yr train goes by forgive me, René! ‘just oncet’
I woke up in Heaven
He woke, and wondered more, how many angels
on this train huh? snore
for there she lay
on sheets that mock lust done that 7 times
been caught
and brought back
to a peach nobody.
To Continue:
Ron Padgett & Ted Berrigan
hates yr brain
my dears
amidst the many other little buzzes
& like, Today, as Ron Padgett might say
is
“A tub of vodka”
“in the morning”
she might reply
and that keeps it up
past icy poles
where angels beg fr doom then zip
ping in-and-out, joining the army
wondering about Life
by the Public Library of
Life
No Greater Thrill!
(I wonder)
Now that the earth is changing I wonder what time it’s getting to be
sitting on the New York Times Square
that actually very ritzy, Lauren it’s made of yellow wood or
I don’t know something maybe
This man was my it’s been fluffed up
friend
He had a sense for the
vast doesn’t he?
Awake my Angel! give thyself
to the lovely hours Don’t cheat
The victory is not always to the sweet.
I mean that.
Now this picture is pretty good here
Though it once got demerits from the lunatic Arthur Cravan
He wasn’t feeling good that day
Maybe because he had nothing on
paint-wise I mean
PART 3
I wrote that
about what is
this empty room without a heart
now in three parts
a white flower
came home wet & drunk 2 Pepsis
and smashed my fist thru her window
in the nude
As the hand zips you see
Old Masters, you can see
well hung in New York they grow fast here
Conflicting, yet purposeful
yet with outcry vain!
PART 4
Praising, that’s it!
you string a sonnet around yr fat gut
and falling on your knees
you invent the shoe
for a horse. It brings you luck
while sleeping
“You have it seems a workshop nature”
Have you “Good Lord!”
Some folks is wood
seen them? Ron Padgett wd say
amidst the many other little buzzes
past the neon on & off
Have you ever tried one Anne? SURE!
“I wonder what time ‘its’?”
as I sit on this new Doctor
NO I only look at buildings they’re in
as you and he, I mean he & you & I buzz past
in yellow ties I call that gold
THE HOTEL BUCKINGHAM
(facade) is black, and taller than last time
is looming over lunch naked high time poem & I, equal in
perfection & desire
is looming two eyes over coffee-cup (white) nature
and man: both hell on poetry.
Art is art and life is
“A monograph on infidelity”
Oh. Forgive me stench of sandwich
O pneumonia in American Poetry
Do we have time? well look at Burroughs
7 times been caught and brought back to Mars
& eaten.
“Art is art & Life
is home,” Fairfield Porter said that
turning himself in
Tonight arrives again in red
some go on even in Colorado on the run
the forests shake
meaning:
coffee the cheerfulness of this poor
fellow is terrible, hidden in
the fringes of the eyelids’
blue mysteries (I’M THE SKY)
The sky is bleeding now
onto 57th Street
of the 20th Century &
HORN & HARDART’S
Right here. That’s PART 5
I’m not some sailor off a ship at sea
I’m the wanderer (age 4)
& now everyone is dead
sinking bewildered of hand, of foot, of lip
nude, thinking
laughter burnished brighter than hate
Goodbye.
André Breton said that
what a shit!
Now he’s gone!
up bubbles all his amorous breath
& Monograph on Infidelity entitled
The Living Dream
I never again played
I dreamt that December 27th, 1965
all in the blazon of sweet beauty’s breast
I mean “a rose” Do you understand that?
Do you?
The rock&roll songs of this earth
commingling absolute joy AND
incontrovertible joy of intelligence
certainly can warm
can’t they? YES!
and they do
Keeping eternal whisperings around
(Mr. MacAdams writes in
the nude: no that’s not
(we want to take the underground me that: then zips in &
revolution to Harvard!) out the boring taxis, re-
fusing to join the army
and yet this girl has asleep “on the springs”
so much grace of red GENEROSITY)
I wonder!
Were all their praises simply prophecies
of this
the time! NO GREATER THRILL
my friends
But I quickly forget them, those other times, for what are they
but parts in the silver lining of the tiny cloud my brain
drifting up into smoke the city’s tough blue top:
I think a picture always
leads you gently to someone else
Don’t you? like when you ask to leave the room
& go to the moon.
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