Magical Rage
Allen Ginsberg, all alone,
enters the eternal. Smoking a joint
by himself, he answers, "Yes, yer
Highness?" We, the feverish, forgive
him for moving forward. But no, Nina's
there, Nina Simone. "Hey Al,
got a bowl?" And they talked
about, naturally, jazz. And
Allen an' Nina smoked.
Then, they discussed their
sex lives. "Spicy," Nina described.
"(Scripturally)," Allen resisted. His
beard cut off: Mr. was hysterical
for awhile; though, they continued
(they had a long time). Given up
on inventing his surroundings, Allen
an' Nina got hungry. They desired,
yes, as their stomachs were aching from
infinite, & lungs choked by eternity.
They compromise on voodoo.
Nina and Allen now with a smoke-pile,
playing chess cautiously. Nina's
eyes deep, pulling in from the
smoke and choked with the play
of the match/game. They agree
to be pleased together. They shoulder
into an elevator, a doorway appears.
The magic of one an' rage of the
other, they surmise something fine.
They light fires, burn down buildings,
chant with Jerry Falwell. In the
end, it went pretty great. They
put out their buds in the new bonfire:
stoked, blazed, loaded,
and go back to their beds.
Tomorrow, the two listen to The Who's
"Tommy" again for the first time.
While trading pawns, Allen blows out
a lion from his tongue, w/o paws.
She chuckles. Nina realized that
lies, those pleasurable, are acceptable in Heaven.
"Hey, I've ne'er screwed a Jew." Allen
chuckles, like she knew he would. They,
together, soulmates? ol' friends?
together? invisible?
"Hey Nina, can you load up this
glass hitter? I got 'er in India.
She's terrific."
"Sure Al, b'wait a second. You wanna
smoke the rest of this?"
"Will you sing?"
"Can you read?"
Yes, they giggle and play
footsies. Her great little paray, oopsy, wait...
Her great little parade didn't gain any
weight. At least she don't hear the
sirens anymore.
"Her sides don't hurt,
ears ar' workin' fine. No more jangle-jangle,
'cept when Allen plays Tambourine?
In a liberated Africa! In the peaceful East,
Indonesia, overseas? Go to the
unknown? Okay: space. Make yer
choices in Heaven."
- April 10th, 1969 Heaven Commercial
Did Heaven get a TV spot? What else has
Heaven got?
Dictator Tots, Jupis, Continuum
Powder, Lucky Charms, HFLA (Huge-Fucking
Library Association [quite anti-censorship]),
etc.
etc. x a = Heaven
a = infinite
Heaven = infinite x etc.
but math is too imperfect for their
home. All grown up, real young. Impossible,
you will say? Watch yer tongue. It's
nonsense, yer Alice in a toybox, exiting
an' entering simultaneously. Can it be?
"To be cont'd" bullshit, we'll see. Really,
I hope not. Me? Exactly. Them: eternity.
Must be nice, less than pleasure: never, anytime.
Bronze Lungs
I don't know if I left Sisypha.
A foot forward, a baby-toe back,
a retreat, a forfeit, a hostage
of my pose, goin' nowhere, with
a statue's courage, a bronzed-
long distance runner. Gonna pause
before any explosion or go on when
no one'd notice. Whithin, always, I am;
so often I cannot. My feet urge
my bones, I keep posted, boring
non-motionings, stopped as long as the ocean.
But someday, these waves will be home.
The Mothkeeper
I swat at the moths;
the moths flee.
They multiplied too much,
too rapidly, destroin' property
an' people,
tying off their conscience with a loop.
Hanging by a head-thread, the moths
would leave off, away for some food.
"my grandma knitted that sandwich,
geek," my younger brother squeals/squeaks.
He bites at the moth's feet.
Where've you been, mothface?
Gonna go on? No, an' quit nagging.
Yer annoying, a nuisance, something to be
loosed, gruesome, too old to boot.
Um, uh, hold on...So, man, it's lagging.
Regardless, I'll arrest 'em an' rape 'em.
So, they'll get slaughtered an' shamed.
Well, I'll whip 'em an' waste 'em.
Yeah, I'll yip an' yawp.
Oh, it will go on, the games aren't for our show.
