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glittergold
    Heaven’s Angels
    Wailing
    Saying
    We ve been waiting for you
    Since Morning, Jack
    â€”Why were you so long
    Dallying in the sooty room?
    This Transcendental Brilliance
    Is the better part
    (Of Nothingness
    I sing)
    Okay.
    Quit.
    Mad.
    Stop.
    ____

MACDOUGAL STREET BLUES
    IN THE FORM OF 3 CANTOS
    *
CANTO UNO
    The goofy foolish
    human parade
    Passing on Sunday
    art streets
    Of Greenwich Village
    Pitiful drawings of
    images on an
    iron fence
    ranged there
    by selfbelieving
    artists
    with no hair
    and black berets
    showing green seas
    eating at rock
    and Pleiades
    of Time
    Pestiferating at moon squid
    Salt flat tip fly toe
    tat sand traps
    With cigar smoking interesteds
    puffing at the
    stroll
    I mean sincerely
    naive sailors buying prints
    Women with red banjos
    On their handbags
    And arts handicrafty
    Slow shuffling
    art-ers of Washington Sq
    Passing in what they think
    Is a happy June afternoon
    Good God the Sorrow
    They dont even listen to me when
    I try to tell them they will die
    They say “Of course I know
    I’ll die, why should you mention
    It now—Why should I worry
    About it—it’ll happen
    It’ll happen—Now
    I want a good time—
    Excuse me—
    It’s a beautiful happy June
    Afternoon I want to walk in—
    Why are you so tragic & gloomy?”
    And on the corner at the
    Pony Stables
    Of Sixth Ave & 4th
    Sits Bodhisattva Meditating
    In Hobo Rags
    Praying at Joe Gould’s chair
    For the Emancipation
    Of the shufflers passing by,
    Immovable in Meditation
    He offers his hand St feet
    To the passers by
    And nobody believes
    That there’s nothing to believe in.
    Listen to Me.
    There is no sidewalk artshow
    No strollers are there
    No poem here, no June
    afternoon of Oh
    But only Imagelessness
    Unrepresented on the iron fence
    Of bald artists
    With black berets
    Passing by
    One moment less than this
    Is future Nothingness Already
    The Chess men are silent, assembling
    Ready for funny war—
    Voices of Washington Sq Blues
    Rise to my Bodhisattva Poem
    Window
    I will describe them:
    Eyt key ee
    Sa la oso
    Fr up t urt
    Etc.
    No need, no words to
    describe
    The sound of Ignorance—
    They are strolling to
    their death
    Watching the Pictures of Hell
    Eating Ice Cream
    of Ignorance
    On wood sticks
    That were once sincere
    in trees—
    But I cant write, poetry,
    just prose
    I mean
    This is prose
    Not poetry
    But I want
    To be sincere

CANTO DOS
    While overhead is the perfect blue
    emptiness of the sky
    With its imaginary balloons
    of false sight
    Flying around in it
    like Tathagata Flying Saucers
    These poor ignorant things
    mill on sidewalks
    Looking at pitiful pictures
    of what they think
    Is reality
    And one
    a Negro with curls
    Even has a camera
    to photograph
    The pictures
    And Jelly Roll Man
    Pops his Billy Bell
    Good Humor for Sale—
    W Somerset Maugham
    is on my bed
    An ignorant storyteller
    millionaire queer
    But Ezra Pound
    he crazy—
    As the perfect sky
    beginninglessly pure
    Thinglessly perfect
    waits already
    They pass in multiplicity
    Parading among Images
    Images Images Looking
    Looking—
    And everybody’s turning around
    & pointing—
    Nobody looks up
    and In
    Nor listens to Samantabhadra’s
    Unceasing Compassion
    No Sound Still
    S s s s l l
    Seethe
    Of Sea Blue Moon
    Holy X-Jack
    Miracle
    Night—
    Instead, yank & yucker
    For pits & pops
    Look for crashes
    Pictures
    Squares
    Explosions
    Birth
    Death
    Legs
    I know, sweet hero,
    Enlightenment has Come
    Rest in Still
    In the Sun Think
    Think Not
    Think no more Lines—
    Straw hat, hands aback
    Classed
    He exam in a tein distinct
    Rome prints—
    Trees prurp
    and saw—
    The Chessplayers Wont End
    Still they sit
    Millions of hats
    In underwater foliage
    1Over marble games
    The Greeks of Chess
    Plot the Pop
    of Mate
    King Queen
    â€”I know their game,
    their elephant with the pillar
    With the pearl in it,
    their gory bishops
    And Vital Pawns—
    Their