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don't go downtown, delores
poisonous cockroaches of pain vibrate within shivering glass cabinets.
ants
spill like black sugar from the edges of
mauve cupboards, doors
crush a cricket like a crackerjack.
that's only insect-wise in the city. we
haven't yet noted conditional humans,
jars sparkling foam-headed amber urine
at their various lips. maybe i'm thinking
of a coffee-colored buffalo in the livingroom,
of canteloupes rotting on fire-escapes,
of some awful general amerikan hiss,
of urban weaponry & snotty blood.
sun a golden missile.
everything we say transmutating rage:
lord forgive us
eat me.
watching horrible car-crashes &
defecating green onions,
slobbering stock-quotes so spittle
is a little like shards of come
superimposed over badly whipped egg,
money-men mimic monstrous monkeys
mooning myopic
death. meter-maid zombies
need fresh flesh & it's
all magic,
all real,
the way wrens can be
squeezed in pop-top fists.
this must be remembered
once
the dissolution of amerikan society
now we toast to human disgust
various tragedies
so when a kid tells me
his fiancee died in a house fire
7 years ago
i barely
care
as if he's endured
so much pain
i shld think him a man
worthy of respect
no
he ain't nothing.
tragedies
compounded upon
tragedies, & character
is formed
nearer
to one's own doom --
heart-ache
& faces of people
we love
after
we've
died -- & the swing of time
guillotines
every particle
of our memory, scattter-brained
& bloody
we
smile like the anonymous creatures
we are
on this
spinning planet --
a dead fiancee
so fucking
what
speaking of marijuana
this is most certainly an anti-marijuana
poem. the millennium marijuana march
is scheduled may 6th in major cities
across the u.s., marching for legalization.
nearest here is cleveland.
my son-in-law wants to go,
fire up on courthouse steps.
buncha potheads in cleveland.
d.a. levy will roll in flat cemetary grave
some pothead cleveland poet will unearth
levy's dope poems & read them aloud
under ohio clouds that saturday afternoon
in may. what is it with these dope-smokers
& poetry. they see illusions
what amerika is
& what's with
bearded poets
& cigarettes
& obscenity
& sarcasm
& what about
those doped-up
faggot
poets of the 50's
& their kicks
chicks looking like
cleopatra
stoned
in black sweaters
cool & crazy
but then let us
consider june
cleaver
& wally
& our childhood
our past as memory is,
or will become
or what happens
when indians smoke peace-pipe
annihilation
scalpings
a lot of goddamn
history
hemp
& ruin
morocco
in the black & white photograph
on the very top of our milk-crated
bookcase packed with tiers of books
my father is twenty years old
a private first-class
drunk & smiling as a
moroccan shaft of sunlight
slices across
the bottle-strewn table.
must be 1952,
morocco
& he's
a drunk marine.
he is not
thinking of me.
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