Thursday, June 28, 2012

The Meatpacker’s Boy

(or, ‘The Impudent Student ‘)

 ((June, 1957) (Ecole St. Louis, School, and Part Four: “The Winter School”))

Façade to: Ecole St. Louis School



His brain had refused to grapple with the theme of learning and desisted: he had covered his papers with little animals and like figures, names of certain people in the classroom, like Linda M., and Mike R. Now it appeared as if he would fail again—he told himself in confidence.
       During the course of the school year, all the studies and elements which the nuns deemed common and significant for learning fell out of his head—one by one; and out of the overall purpose of school itself. There remained no trace of it, and to the nuns he appeared vividly…in another world, as if daydreaming: which he was doing.
       Actually, Chick Evens’ head was on top of the Tower of Pisa, with a pleasant and gentle wind, and a maiden. It was the moment of farewell, with a kiss, that magical moment in the movies where all was at its zenith.  And school, oh that darn thorn, it was like a leafless tree, and when the nun called his name—after gazing at his face for a long while, the liberty of such adventures were drawn to its end—the interruption was likened to falling off the tower itself: how could he recall that end scene, went through his head, as wanting to finish it the proper way. He looked up at the nun who was trying to get his attention, for no good reason: ‘Now what?’ went through his mind.  

       —Chick Evens!  Said Sister Superior, the rector of the school: Tell your mother if she can’t pay your tuition on time, not to come back to this school after summer vacation! Matter of fact, it would be better that you didn’t, anyhow.
       Evens knowing where his mother worked, Swift Meats, as a meatpacker, that it had been on strike for three months this past year, that it was no fault of hers, which he had explained to her before,  that being why the tuition was late this last time, said nothing, it was a gift sent from heaven, so he felt, smiled.
       —Thank you! He said, and ran off to catch his bus, down on Cedar and Robert Streets, rushing home to tell his mother the wonderful news.

 #929 (6-19-2012)

Sister Marleny’s Dilemma

   (Summer of 2011, Concepción, riverside Cafe)

The smile diminished on Sister Marleny’s face. She waited in timorous silence to hear what Rosa—Dr. Evens’ wife was going to say to the proprietor at the outside, riverside fish café in Concepcion. Rosa had been complaining about the trifle, and skimpy amount of fish she was given by the waitress, plus it had bones in it, which she had told the waitress specifically, she didn’t want.
       They were on the edge of a small embankment, the river to the left side of Dr. Evens, one could hear in the background the turbulent white waters of the river, and it was tranquilizing.
       —Why did you give me this skimpy order of fish that has bones in it? She complained to the proprietor.
       It appeared obvious to Dr. Evens the owner felt she was a sly one, you know, as if she felt butter didn’t melt in her mouth. Actually he didn’t want to replace the order; he was trying to persuade her to accept it—manipulate her into believing what she ordered is what she got, but there were nonetheless bones in it.
       —Might I ask you what you are talking about. The Proprietor said courteously.
       —Indeed you might, answered Rosa; Sister Marleny sitting across from her, inquisitive. And Rosa thinking, so it comes into view: ‘What part of this does he not understand?’ (It was obvious what she had said.)
       On the other hand I think Sister Marleny was thinking ‘By gosh, she’s ripping isn’t she’… I mean, the proprietor was trying to convince Rosa what she ordered is what she got, but Rosa stood firm, said:
       —If you think there are no bones in this fish, eat it and find out!
       Well, this was not to his liking, and he refused of course to taste it. A shaft of momentary anger threw Dr. Evens, his mind, his eyes thinking: why not just change the order instead of playing with these coarse insinuations, it was nothing amusing and perhaps the Proprietor saw this in Evens’ face, thus, he started to show interest and regard for Rosa’s wants and wishes: the gloomy tenderness he was showing was wearing on him, in the end. Then abruptly, a pleasantry came over him, his face now painted like a little boy’s,  no more impatience, he agreed to  exchange the order for another: one less problematical.
       The proprietor had looked, glanced at Sister Marleny a few times during this row, it really was her spot, her secret café, away from it all, and they knew one another—hence, the owner knew her, and his expression was as if saying so—as if saying:
       —We admit that we are fairly fond of sister Marleny and therefore we’ll do as you ask, but you Mrs. Evens can’t play the saint—then  he escaped to make the order.

       A soft peal of laughter escaped from Dr. Evens’ lips, bending over to eat his trout; Sister Marleny to his side, as if in unserious caution.
       Rosa’s moment of anger had already passed—they all simply washed the unpleasant chitchat off the table as if into the residing river, and their friendship stood in no danger. Although it must be said, seldom within the cafes throughout the little villages of the Andes of Peru, do people complain of food or service—it is as if a scarce commodity.

#931 (6-20-2012)
For Sister Marleny Rojas

Raul: The Taxi Motor-cart driver

 ((2005-2012, San Juan Miraflores, Lima, Peru))

The old man shook his head, right to left, from the rooftop patio of his home, in San Juan Miraflores, Peru, where he was doing his daily reading and writing. It was late summer in Lima, he was thinking about Raul, he had met him in 2005; he had then one child, one girl by the name of Gabriela, she was now seven years old, and since then, had a boy now five years old, just a young neighbor in the lower apartment across from him, of which his father had built for him. He was short in stature, for a man, rather short, or shorter than tall, that is. He had broad shoulders, well built like a bull, a young wife—named Lola, robust like him. The old man had often thought it strange Raul had the body of a bull—and was rather sluggish, perhaps laid-back is a better description, more so than ambitious; he had a thick neck, his forehead broad and bony and a short piggish nose, rather more pushed in than prominent; and normally wearing a light expression on his face. No rivals because he had no real friends, just family members, always a family member or two or three coming over, visiting, living for a week or month or two months at his apartment; above him in the other two apartments, his family members, those he didn’t talk to, get along with—which must had been hard on him because he loved to talk, and talk and talk—God only knows what about, but talk he did, as did his family members, and his kids; there was no silence in that house, I’ll tell you that. I mean, you knew when their lunch was, and when supper came, and when the kids wanted a snack, the only time the old man didn’t hear them talking was when he fell to sleep. It wasn’t the unpardonable sin, but it was character the old man took note of.
       Raul had a motor-cart; one of those small carts attached onto a motorcycle, and drove people around San Juan Miraflores, the backstreets.
       Raul was a good sort of fellow, that kind where your kids could nudge you with their elbows in church or a meeting and he’d not get mad. And if he saw you walking here or there, and he had time, he’d stop and greet you.
       —Oh, by the way, how’s your husband Rosa, haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. Something along that order he’d say. You know what I mean, one of those good ole fellows God talks about in the bible that is more sparrow than human I think.
       Well, he was all of that, and did, more often, than not: stop work once he had enough food in the nest to talk and chew the fat with any and everyone in the house; one of them folks that might say to his wife:
       —Call granny up, I want to talk, I’m bored to death.

 #930 (6-20-2012) 

Last Fight (?)

 (Buenos Aires, 2007)

In all my twenty-three fights throughout my life, there was never a crowd that rose roaring, I was never a professional fighter, although I took two years of karate, and got in my share of fights. Can you believe this: my last fight was in 2007, five years ago, in Buenos Aires, at the age of fifty-nine years old? It was against three young punks, robbers, in hopes that they would gain treasures beyond reason—seeing us as tourists with a big stash of dollars. 
       I knew how to carry a wicked punch and kick, I was with my wife walking down a deserted street from a park in Buenos Aires—kind of throwing caution to the wind as they say. Not a smart thing to do. When three young adults: one my size and weight, the other a little smaller, the third, like the hawk.  Guess who gets the hawk, it’s always that way. Well there is no sense of brooding over this, I got him, as we walked down the sidewalk, my wife and I, they got in front of us, stopped, the Hawk gave me a bear hug from behind me as the other two went after my wife, cornered her, trying to take her purse.  I gave the Hawk a hard right to the head; I call it: the back punch. There was no way for him to duck, it was a venomous right and it crashed into his jaw. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a back punch, I’ve used it twice, very effective, and then the instinct to fight harder came to me—as he loosened his grip around me, a right  elbow to his ribs, and a crushing blow with my heel to his toes, and he let go: he had suffered enough, then I leaped out blasting full into the center of his ghostly face with a mocked look, he was still waking from the nightmare, all three blows came simultaneously, within a few seconds of the leap, and he limped from his position—

       In the interim, the two fellows were trying to snatch the purse from my wife, having a hell of a time; she gave the purse a bear hug, I suppose they thought her and I were going to say:
       —Now here’s your money, you want it— but it wasn’t that easy.

       Back to my situation: the Hawk, was brooding even staggered a bit, he was stung out of his apathy, and tried to rebound, but he was simply a wavering shadow in front of me, I pulled out a pen, and held it as a knife and was going to stab him with it, he pulled back taking no chances, my wife cried:
       —Help me, they’re getting the purse! So I ran towards the two fellows and one of the two fellows came at me, and the Hawk came from behind, both circled me, one pushed me, and I fell halfway down onto one knee, and the Hawk saw the pen again, and stepped back, and the other fellow already went to help his fellow assailant concerning the purse. But this time I stepped forward—at the Hawk.  He felt no fatigue whatever, I had though, and this time, as I thrust at him with the pen, someone from behind grabbed my arm and throw me to the ground—the pen was now smashed. They had at this point discarded their former intention of winning treasures from both my wife and I: nil and void, and went savagely for the purse.
       —I have to let go, cried my wife.
       —Obey, I yelled back.  Let go! And she did and the three ran to a high fence to escape and I clamored after them, they had an enormous lead,  and I was out of breath, how I lasted that long eight minute fight, I’ll never know, I was cut, bruised, and with blood-stained features from the two falls. They never come back!  And that roaring crowd I was talking about, was a lady on the corner who saw it all, her and her husband had stopped the car so she could get out and watch the show, he sat like a coward in his car, missed the vicious fight.
       Oh, incidentally, what they got was: an old camera, that cost $105-dollars, five years previously, and about fifty-dollar cash from the purse. What they didn’t get was, whatever was in my pockets, which I had $300-dollars cash, and a $1500-dollar wedding ring on, the second pinky ring worth $600-dollars, and a gold chain with trinkets worth another $2000-dollars around my neck, a gold watch worth $2000-dollars, my wife’s rings worth, $3000-dollars, and so forth: they missed the jackpot.
       Later that afternoon, I bought my wife a new purse, that evening we went to see a live stage musical—ate pizza, and took the rest of our trip in Buenos Aires, with caution: which I suggest you do likewise.

 #931 (6-21-2012)
The Author has been in Buenos Aires three times: 2002, 2007, and 2010

Nightmare in Erie

  (Summer, 1973)

There was madness in her, and brilliance. One minute you’re a family, the next you are not.
       A schizophrenic is well named, in that, there resides in them a split personality, added with a bipolar disorder (manic and depression) with that tinged of staring lunacy; thus, one never rests trying to deal with whomever is inside of that person at  any given moment. This was Chick Evens’ wife. 
       A wave of agony came over him trying to deal with his wife, the first day they arrived in Erie, from St. Paul, Minnesota, invited by his sister-in-law to stay with them for the summer, if not longer.
       As they had sat at the kitchen table, Chick saw her face withdrawn. He didn’t want to walk on eggshells this evening so he told them: his wife, sister and brother-in-law, he was going out for a drink. The twin boys were playing quietly. He knew in ten minutes, or fifteen minutes or an hour, whatever, it was unpredictable, but he knew enough to know it would come soon, she would crash, his eyes shifted from hers; it was 7:00 p.m.


       He had now come back from the bar:  9:00 p.m.

       —That’s so preposterous, he said. She’s now intensely suspicion that he sold her cloths to get drinking money.
       —Listen to me, someone took them out of the car when I was in the bar; I wouldn’t even know anybody here to sell them to if I wanted to. He explained. Although he had a sense of guilt for leaving the car door unlocked.  It was a nightmare; they had driven from St. Paul, Minnesota all the way up to Erie nonstop, to see them, with their two boys, but a year old, to see her sister, perhaps to move up there (her bipolar symptoms were   reactivated).
       —To think I’d sell them for a glass of beer—he thought was pure pathetic idiocy. But nothing need be explained to her beyond the first time, because it was not necessary, it couldn’t be, nothing could be, explained beyond the first time to make any better sense than the first time.
       It was necessary to treat her with solid insistence—keeping her level with reality, lest she quickly sink into her own quicksand, and into oblivion, and only God knows where that might be: her escape route to who knows where, should one not hold her up.
       Later on that night she was laughing hilariously…
       —You’ll have to buy me new cloths! She raved.
       She accused him in front of her sister and brother-in-law, even the children, of this folly, with that always bewildered face, and the strain on the children’s face wondering what was what; as they looked from parent to parent.
       —What are your plans now Chick? Questioned Monica, the sister-in-law; as if he had a plan already worked out—; I mean, he was their guest, and that was for the most part his short plan, to remain their guest.
       —Well, we came all the way up here at your invitation, I’ll find a job and apartment sooner or later, and live here until we do I guess…(wondering what she had expected him to say).
       She grinned, trying to make a smile, looked at her husband. Eyes ablaze, they had invited them up there, that was true, and to stay at their house that was also true, but now she had second thoughts. There was as if little signals going on between her and her husband: they got up and walked into the other room, whispered, came back out.
       —We’re sorry, but you can’t stay here? She said, referring to Chick Evens and his whole family, looking at all four of them in the kitchen with on long glance: as if they had driven over from Erie Lake a few miles away for an evening visit—not a thousand miles or more: from Minnesota.
       —Where are we supposed to stay? Asked Evens, adding: we got an old car, no job, a little money in our pockets, two kids; we can’t make it back to Minnesota, why did you invite us in the first place? 
       Evens’ wife was torn as if to say: what just took place—looking at her sister the very one she had so proudly—for so many years, looked up to—she looked torn: on what just came out of her mouth, this was near treachery to invite someone and then leave them stranded; to Chick Evens, it was simply bad news, he didn’t really care for either one of them anyhow, felt they were a little above their status, or thought they were: it wasn’t what he expected, but for some reason, he wasn’t shocked at this developing nightmare, in Erie, Pennsylvania.
       —Let’s go. Said Chick Evens to his wife, picking up his two boys.
       —What will you do? Asked Monica, to her sister—whom was dumbfounded, had no response, had she, it would have been a scream.
       —No need to answer her, said Chick just be careful going down the stairs with the luggage, he said to his wife not wanting to stay any longer than he had to—lest he lose his Irish temper, and to the boys: Look both ways when we cross the street to the car, he told them.
       Monica and Evens’ wife looked at each other directly; their eyes like blazing windows across two rooms, then smoothed back her temple hair.  Chick watched the children climbing into the backseat of the car, and Monica continued to look out the window until their car disappeared among the buildings and houses halfway down the block.
#932 (6-21/22-2012)

Empty House

((Fort Rucker, 1979) (Part two to; “Nightmare in Erie”))

Despite the overhanging leafage from the dying vegetables in Staff Sergeant Evens’ garden, his wife was far away, in Minnesota, he was left at Fort Rucker Alabama—kind of abandoned, or stranded, she had taken the kids (her twin boys, now eight years old, and daughter, four years old) and as she had often done, run off.  Now he found himself walking around the house, looking at the garden, and the neighbor’s house, it was a quiet and grayish evening; he thought about her with detachment, he remembered she had done this before, always running back—who knows when, was the question? The house was now nearly empty, he stood barefoot nestling close to the window and curtains, held his beer can in his right hand, a Camel cigarette in his left, the newspaper lay by a chair, on an end table,  opened to the second and third pages.
       Something inside him loved the peace, seldom was it like this, perhaps she had left for his soul’s sake—this was a joke of course, and he began thinking about that, the bachelor life again.  Hours went by; he had lost himself in alcohol not really realizing—not a day or week—but over a month had passed. He was if anything, solving some complicated equations, simple problems he had with her, he was no psychologist, but they were coming out. As if flowing under a stone, his mind had been like a spear—blunted—cutting open the personalities in her, and his drunken behavior.

       —Perhaps there is a link between anthropology and neurosis, he thought: so he deliberated this one quiet evening during the fifth week of his and his wife’s separation.
       —It’s simply looking at your ancestors from far-off, it is a way we often look at things, we want to theorize—; isn’t it? He questioned himself—as if they or she, or he was of the Neanderthal race.
       —When we see something antipathetic in mankind, in our spouses, in our family unit, when it is obvious we have no answers for their behavior, we theorize, hypothesize, imagine—; isn’t this so? He questioned again.
       She could very much look relaxed, but once she felt his presence for a long period, or any negative presence in particular, she shifted into a mode of pretentious unrest and was at a continued self-destroying nervous tension, near ready for combat, much intensity (all entirely suppressed until the Big Bang). And deep inside of her was recurring resentment on her face whenever she looked at Chick Evens, drinking, or not drinking, drunk or not drunk.
       As he sat in the middle of his near empty house, he fell half asleep in the chair—a cot in the middle of the living room, that was all that was left of the furniture, he seen her with deadly yellow eyes, staring at him, a gun over his head, loaded, her in a trance, finger near the trigger, it was a dream that recurred from a point of reality, that took place in Babenhausen, West Germany, a few years back. Not an illusion, just a dream, nightmare, of a suppressed past experience. Thus, her yellow alive eyes were staring at him, in her own mental deflationary prison; unlike her—nonetheless in a like manner, he found himself, trying to get out of a prison, he found himself in— one seemingly and figuratively speaking: made of bricks and motor.

#933 (6-23-2012)

Fragmented Desires

((Babenhausen Caserne, 1977) (Part two of three to; “Nightmare in Erie”))

He cared for her—for her best self that is: love, well, perhaps it was damp love, not the kind that molds two into a marriage, or ever creates a bond between one and the other, not a real romance, it never had time to develop, it was damp before they met, and when they met, they both were in need of a lifeboat, if not a life preserver.
       He learned her way as if she was a book though, opened at a certain page, one read and reread. And knew somewhere inside her there always would be that other person she  was—that person that steps away from the soul for the soul’s sake.  And that is what he was thinking about this morning walking to the woods…  
       in essence, it was not a healthy marriage, from the start, and to be frank he never felt so unsure of himself as now.
       —And it’s not over yet, he told himself, time and again.
       He loitered about among the indistinguishable foliage: it was summer, 1977. He lived outside the world of desires and their fulfillments. That is to say, inept and uncertain.
       He turned away—they were in the woods, behind the Babenhausen, Military Housing Compound, also referred to as Caserne. He was with his wife and twin boys, now five years old, they were waiting for a ride on his shoulders and back, Cody was first, and he got on his hands and knees and moved about like a bear, as Shawn tried to pull him off. Then Shawn got his turn, mostly on his shoulders, as Cody tried to jump up at Shawn’s feet and pull him off his father, whom was bent slightly.
       It was a fine feeling playing with the boys, he had told them, also telling them that there were wild boars in the woods, thus, they looked here and there every time they heard a noise, and to be honest, it was a true statement.
      Chick Evens longed for such weekends, playing with the boys, flying their kites, and so on, but the Army was demanding, and therefore, such occasions were far and in-between. But he enjoyed the moment, even his own fatigue, feeling the delight of the boys.
       Regretfully that morning would soon come to an end; it turned windy, and then came forenoon thunder.

       As he walked back to his apartment, knowing good and well the marriage was not going to last, that he could have had a good share of the pretty women of his time, just for the asking, but he also felt, why start now, especially with frustration and  fragmented desires.

#934 (6-23-2012)

Friday, June 22, 2012

Bird’s on the Ledge

I slept very well last night,
Even though the space heater remained on—
For hours, next to my bed;
I like the heat, I’m getting old.
The birds chipper in the bushes
(In the Middle of night)
On the outside window’s outcrop—
They wake up my wife: she thinks they’re mice.

#3359 (6-10-2012)
Written: in Lima, Peru

White Nights

Years have slipped away:
By clock, calendar and birthday—
And so has beauty…
White nights have taken their place.
My mind, now often in a rush
Re-winding old film, old events!
Even this past year appears
A wasted time for me
(Writing, writing, less living);
The longer I live—the more secrets
I find buried deep within my mind, my
Childhood: long forgotten struggles!...

#3360 (6-11-2012)
Written: in Lima, Peru
Note: a white night is often referred to as a night without sleep


For Allen Ginsberg


I saw the best of people of my age group gobbled up by smut and your
         madness, your kind of madness, Allen Ginsberg,
in San Francisco, in 1968, at the Golden Gate Park, in Castro, dragged out       
       and aged in drugs, and alcohol,
black, yellow, brown, red and white, burning for lust, begging on the 
yellow teeth, sucked in eyes and cheeks, barely alive, at the mission  
       house, sucked in eyes, cold as ice,
       demonic formed, filled, mimicking like a sow, for more…
you burnt their brains, and told them it was okay not insane, America was 
       your enemy, their enemy, but it was fools like you, staggering to your ill-illuminated light, with hallucinating spines, and then off to Vietnam,  
       I went, and met more drug induced friends like you, I saw them wither away, you didn’t go but they did, while you sucked the honey and money
       of the many, and created the American dream, the very one you scorned at with your wastebasket wisdom, you and William S.,
       the dope kings of fifties, the sparrows of the sixties, the antichrists of
God Almighty—exchanging dreams for nightmares, alcohol, dope and
       orgies: the condemned gays, lesbians: leading the blind, down
       endless halls towards Hades,
I saw it in Asia, America, in Europe: heroin, hash, opium, cocaine, whores, 
       it’s all  the same, all the same game, all trying to get a fixed, shredding the brain, whacking the nerves, draping the blood, like a bug on the ass of
       Zoo rat—whores; you were no more any less, than a lesbian whore,
what will they say of my generation, in a thousand years? Out of 105-
       billion hum dumb bum beings, this was the generation unseen!
Stale beer, stale breath, stale booze, stale food, everybody for sale,
       and nearly everything unclean, to include sex, that’s why you
       can’t get enough, it’s all too much, half a bluff:
all for jukebox jollies, all for escapes in alleys, to: Cambodia, Tangier,
       Paris, New York, Rome, China. It’s only time, some will end up living under bridges—; and here you are, writing poetry, making $200,000-
       dollars a year, laughing at the hopeless, once they take your cure,
with your words—your poetry, which should have been, all this is noble 
       and clean: oh, yes: you loved the American dream, you ferry, who wailed that America was uncaring: you were the Sodom and Gomorra of
all in one: the protesting narcotic king, while ingesting it, investing it: all
       for a fancy…


What demon bashed open the doors of Sheol—for you? Ate up our
       souls, in the process, cemented our hearts, wounded our brains to
       morose thoughts?
Seth! Embedded in the head of the Sphinx! Villain of the Gods! Begging
       to be worshiped, deity of storm and turmoil, great, great—one
       hundred times great grandfather to you,  Allen Ginsberg!
Seth! Setekh! Set! Nightmare of Osiris and Horus the rival!  Canaanite god
       Baal! Seth the human form with the head of an animal!
Seth the doglike animal, impenetrable—once imprisoned in the Sphinx! Seth the skull-cracked soulless demon of sorrows! Seth variously species
       of the wolfhound!
Seth the storm of war! Set, Osama’s guardian demon. Bashed open the
       doors of Sheol for you, Allen: for you, for you, just for you…
Seth whose heart is purely evil, putty, and putrid! Set whose blood is
       running Wall Street like a boar or some wild beast, like the okapi, who
       remains obscure.
Seth the eyes for the blind public and guardian of the widows of war:
       Bush’s war, now Obama’s war and consort to the U.S. Congress! Set’s disciples pushing the U.S., economy over the cliff, along with
Seth whose love is fertility on every corner of the America’s streets—let’s
       do it now, why wait, nothing’s a sin—according to Obama (that’s your  
       philosophy too, like two peas in a pod, isn’t it Allen?), let’s add Gay
       marriages, abortions—make everything unnatural: why not, it’s part of
       the plot… wake up in Seth heaven! With devils streaming out of the
       sky—as we all await the big lie, Obama the dark Messiah!
Seth! Setekh! Set! Will never abandon you, never ever—robot to your
       outside door! Waiting to score, invisible with erect ears, donkey ears,
       that hears all your moans and groans and cherishes them, like old
       rotting bones, livers and throats. Lover of the blind, crippled and
       crazy, and lazy.
The angels in heaven, per near broke their backs, lifting Seth, bringing
       him back to Sheol, Hades, Hell! He had three-forth the souls of earth 
       attached to him, like worms! Hell, which exists everywhere within the
       crust of the earth—cheered with invisible monstrous Yowls, madness!
       “The Wild Boar, the Mantic ore, has returned!” They Yowled.
What now? “Send Agaliarept,” they cried, at Hades pier! Satan’s
       Henchman! “He will illuminate the religions of the earth with hate, and
       all its cities with dreams and visions and adoration of demonic
       beings…they haven’t had enough yet!—give them more, more, more!”  
Burst through! Over Hades walls, go down the floodwaters of Hades
       River, up through Paradise Pike, bring despair for all America’s 
       children, another four years of Obama will do it, or his like. Rewire,
       and distort even more, before the new generation grows wise and 
       bored!  Like Europe…bring up the smut, if there’s any room left.
There is total holy black laughter in Sheol tonight!
Seth is telling it all! The wild hearts of America, Europe, South America,
       Asia… dances to the unholy Yowls!  They say “…farewell, farewell,
       Satan speed!” to Agaliarept… “Have them jump off buildings, roofs,
       bridges will do quiet well! Have them hide inside their drugs and
       alcohol; suicide, suicide, is the kick, let them think it’s a fade;
       lick the poison lips of Seth, Allen and Agaliarept: bring it all out onto
       the open streets!—nice and neat!”


Allen Ginsberg! They’re with you, heart and soul
       wherever your madness goes, they go
I’m sure you’re in hell,
       where you must feel at home: not strange at all!
They’re with you in Hell on earth, hell in their dreams,
       hell, in their visions, in their hopes, and schemes
       the shade of your shadow is still left, oh yes!
They’re with you Allen Ginsberg, and your buddy
       William S. Burroughs, as if in Tangier…! Taking
       all that dope, and alcohol, and enmeshed in sexual
       dissension of your soul:  orgies, sodomy …
They’re still with you Allen, and William S.
       now down there, if you can hear, go ahead and laugh
       at us, with that in-decrepit humor, it really doesn’t
      mean much, you made such a fuss!
They’re still with you Allen Ginsberg up here, too
       great writers of smut and slush and pure
       dreadful, sexual gossip
They’re still with you Allen, up here, soon to be down
       there, soon to be with you forever…and ever…
       the world didn’t change because you came
       they just played the game, and gave you fame
       and watched you drain, and drain and drain
They’re still with you Allen, the same, the same gang
       the worms of the world, Satan’s facilities
I’m even with you Allen, thinking of you anyway
       wondering if you brought your Harpies to hell?
I’m even with you Allen, oh yes, but I got to be
       careful, lest I end up in a straightjacket,
       reading your crap, your bullshit…
       your soul is where it belongs, in the abyss!
       the world is no better because of you, perhaps
       not all that worse, but you are
       the demons saw you coming, and rehearsed,
       rented out a hearse… and simply waited!
They’re still with you though, Allen & William
       up here, up here, up here, on planet earth,
       the ungodly, the madhouse, the many
       sick minds: sick minds breed sick minds—
       you know that better than anyone!
They’re still with you Allen, and your insane plot:
       your revolution of smut: and I heard Allen:
       “Leave evil be evil, and let the defiled
       remain defiled, and the dead lie with the dead,
       the blasphemy with the blasphemy—let them
       hide under their bed sheets if they want!
       the Holy Spirit has abandoned them…
       one and for all, yes, one and for all, for all…
       there will be no more reprieve, only recall!
And I heard Allen, I really heard, down there:
       there will be tears and garnishing of teeth,
       dripping of sweat, and shock, no mercy,
       eternal domination: can you write a new poem
       and tell me about this? Please, please tell
       Seth, we want to hear more from you about
       when you woke up, as if out of a coma and
       there you were—electrified with roaring demonic
       beings, hungry and lonesome, hopeless:
       staring, just staring, as if you were the prize
       worm—to be sodomized!
Don’t take it wrong, you ought to like this poem, it’s
       like yours just contrary … and don’t worry,
       they’re still with you, the morbid sinister gang!
       They’ll all be seeing you soon I think.

#3358 (6-9-2012) Written in Lima, Peru (Dlsiluk)