it is holy. It gives us the telephone, the TV, electric
utility bills with our bright names typed on them & short breath. It
supplies us with all these plugs to suck on. If only there were pills I could
take while looking down at the city all aglow with Con Edison light. I’m so
thankful. If only there were such a
thing as guilt pills
At work I rub the customers’
backs with chloroform & slap their sagging stomachs with my palms. To
everyone but me it sounds like applause, but to me it sounds like somebody’s
teeth flapping in the wind. Or for lunch we take LSD & eat the crumbling
company Fritos. Nickels taped to our eyeballs so we won’t envy the fellow next
to us & count the # of corn chips in his bag. A man cant be expected to
sweat his life away for three bags of corn chips a day. We go on strike
I want a new name. I also
want a new set of gimmicks or a
getaway. Anything but this blood-flavored gum. Uh, as we approach NYC from the
turnpike gears of this sweetness jam my face
with the milk of human kindness.
The left eyebrow of Zeus knits furiously
All this furor incorporated by
the
state of
it is holy. It gives us the telephone, the TV, electric
blue light we work our sheepish looks over. Polo shirts & sunglasses are
the most useful combination. Grow a weak heart & somebody will make you
famous. When that sand rubs against your eyeball it is all you can do. It
sounds like I’m using a ventriloquist again. I saw you on TV, Mr. Levenson
The novel has killed the point
of view. Tonnage of the stock exchange
stuck deep to your bowels. I hand you my shirt as evidence, it cracks you up as
horrible food so often does. At work, I subscribe
Who? You walk in the room, pose
in front of the mirror. Tiny mirrors on your pocket book too. Beautiful
streamers of someone’s hair flow out of your sides. Fantastic vibraphone solo
by Karl Berger. 2631 Garfield Street Still
no one suspects
At work, I subscribe to a new
game. Them that make us do sit-ups (timed) & apply for dress regulations.
Otherwise you’re fired & not enough time in for unemployment. I had some
pimples so I couldn’t fuck. Couldnt keep it up for the blood-tests.
Confidential information. We just show the psychologist & then throw the
results away. Sure I’m reading Downbeat Magazine, what do I care
My name is Robert Jordan &
invented the sit-up. Is another poem, no, senor? I eye the alphabet on your tits. Sonny
Sharrock on the guitar
Dave said.
Disguised as a great man, I
could fool millions.
Richard said.
I used to think my life was
headed nowhere. Now I know it was there all the time
you were great, Mr. Levenson
He slurped some saliva back… tried to pick up this wo-
into his face man at the bar, saying
how life-like she was. Silicon pellets
in his fist of authority
As I sit here writing I sit here
with a glass of dead beer stumped on my face. Stump. In my head French sounds
like Chinese. That is because I’m on the other side of the earth. I fell
through this hole one day. Oil slick leakage out of my pores. It has been a
major influence on my life. As you have, you fucker, ashes on my breastplate
& miles to go before that scum of memory on the eyes clears up like an old
case of acne. Toad, you wear such vague pants. Your head punctures one cloud of
pain only to take on another. While the small people grow pimples at the
supermarket
That stab
in the bathroom
should be called “Max’s Famous
Spittle”. A twinge in your heart when we go to the bar & you try jerking me
off under the table. A gasp when he tore out his stomach. Then I roll around in
some corn flakes & try selling myself to a museum as an artifact
But you spelled yogurt wrong
& you play all that lousy music. That’s why I didn’t accept your suicide
note. I wadded up several dollar bills & stuffed them in my palms. All my
fucking friends I said. The editor said. Today there are men squawking against
the lurid sky. It was on the Ed Sullivan Show
Tie back your hair, lady
you’re dead. Your skin came
off in a bath these humans
call love. Worth five cereal
boxtops. Oh, Hollywood, you
suck! I cant remember a past
this dismal
I had a couple of beers & started to undo my voice,
but the zipper got stuck. The stomach in the ice-bucket. Throbbtt. You fucked
up on this one rather badly. I think you do better to go to an operation
somewhere. Shoot up. Roll the tongue around in a bit of mucus. Clang, clang
goes the napkin holder against his head ,
is holy
the lights of Con Ed go out we crosst our chests
Nor
do
I.
[Note: from unsigned mimeographed mss circa mid-70s; not
found or referenced in her on line archives]
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