Tarantula Page 5

  sang at the vegetarian convention

  my new song against meat. everybody

  dug it except for the plumbers neath

  the stage. this one little girl,

  fresh out of college & i believe

  president of the Dont Stomp Out the

  Cows division of the society. she tried

  to push me into one of the plumbers.

  starts a little chaos going, but you

  know me, i didnt go for that not one

  little bit. i say “look baby, i’ll sing

  for you & all that, but just you dont

  go pushing me, y’hear?” i understand

  that theyre not gonna invite me back

  cause they didnt like the way i came on

  to the master of ceremony’s old lady, all

  in all, i’m making it tho. got a new song

  against cigarette lighters. this matchbook

  company offered me free matches for the rest

  of my life, plus my picture on all the

  matchbooks, but you know me, it’d take a

  helluva lot more’n that before i’d sell out—

  see you around nomination time

  your fellow rebel

  kid tiger

  making love on maria’s friend

  yawn to foxy queenie school teacher—gone, decatur & entering the pink highway—your black mongrel vagabond, your rat from Delphi—now he shall tattle on your nauseous bra—your hair in chains & speak TU CAMINO while your El Paso ideals, they celebrate ES TERCIOPELO they leave your gruesome body—your structure falling, you listen for a lazy siren & some young Spaniard to buy your wounds, your pregnant drawl … yawn to queenie of the Goya painting seeking poor Homer QUEDATE CONMIGO while the dikes break & count your number & Baby Mean crying NO PREDENDAS while author Fritz from your industrial south yelling what’s this all about & get the hell home, queenie & you, queenie, the spider—the sweat web’s got you—you beg your arms to move—you pray to be righteous—you look for postcards & teddy bears for payoffs—the partisans, they laugh CON TUS PIERNAS & the boys with brown rags, they whisper of the bust & already they have Leo the Sneak & Doc’s gonna have to leave by noon—St. Willy hides in the pawnshop PARA QUEENIE you need not fear & nobody’s chasing—you want to be held LA ERRONEA DAMA & dig into your purse—forget your pupils & pay for your partner & botheration—the shadow of your boss, it is your felony—author Fritz would like to suck your toe—your holiday be gone soon & vanishing like your life LA CHOTA the grass cuts your feet & Socrates’ Prison is your goal AHI VIENEN you are the wrong lady—you threaten nobody—spend your money on health food & you shall be run over by a truck—they’ll put a tag on you—send you home to Fritz—Fritz will cry for a week & marry your nurse—the dikes will curl their mouths but you’ll still be the wrong one TODOS SON DE LA CHOTA live now … live before you board your Titanic—reach out, Queenie, reach out—feel for equal saggy skin & believe this dark playboy licking ink from your notebook—see the cages & screaming ghosts & you with the gall to think that ruins are buildings … take your bloody glands & medallion & make love once freely—it means nothing so wear a top hat—travel on a slow ship back to your guilt, your pollution, the kingdom of your blues

  hi. watcha doing? how’s the new religion?

  feel any different? gave it up myself. just

  couldnt make all the auctions and frankly,

  i’s running out of bread. you know how it

  is, like about that little old lady in the

  back building all the time pointing telling

  me that God is watching. you know, like for a

  while there, i’s scared to take a shit. anxious

  to get together with you. i know you dont wear

  bow ties anymore but i’m interested in other

  aspects of your new faith too. by the way, are

  you still in the keyhole business? cant wait

  to talk to you

  bye,

  your buddy,

  Testy

  Note to the Errand Boy

  as a Young Army Deserter

  wonder why granpa just sits there & watches yogi bear? wonder why he just sits there & dont laugh? think about it kid, but dont ask your mother. wonder why elvis presley only smiles with his top lip? think about it kid, but dont ask your surgeon. wonder why the postman with one leg shorter’n the other kicked your dog so hard? think about it kid, but dont ask any mailman. wonder who ronald reagan talked to about the foreign situation? think about it kid, but dont ask any foreigners. wonder why the mechanic, whose wife shot herself with a gun she got from his best friend, hates castro so much? wonder why castro hates rock n roll? think about it kid, but dont ask no roll. wonder how much the man who wrote white christmas made? think about it, but dont ask no made. wonder what bobby kennedy’s really got against jimmy hoffa? think about it, but dont ask no bobby. wonder why frankie shot johnny? go ahead, wonder, but dont ask your neighbor … wonder who the carpet baggers are? think, but dont ask no carpet. wonder why youre always wearing your brother’s clothes? think about it kid, but dont ask your father. wonder why general electric says that the most important thing for a family to do is stick together? think about it kid, but dont ask no together … wonder what paydirt is? go ahead, wonder … wonder why the other boys wanna beat you up so bad? think about it kid, but dont ask nobody

  yes. ok. i guess youre a pumpkin.

  yes, it’s true i referred to you as “that

  chinese girl” you have a right to

  be angry. but what i want to know

  is just what have you got against

  the Chinese anyway?

  maybe we can still work

  it out

  properly yours,

  prince goulash

  Taste of Shotgun

  the roar of our engines promises us cover—we wear choking pants & are slaves to appetite—we get stoned on joan crawford & form teeming colonies & die of masculine conversation … Marcellus, wearing khaki when madness struck him, immediately filed suit against an illegitimate son belonging to someone else—Josie said everybody at the trial came with a blowgun … Tom Tom made Melodius hate him, then jumped from a window—we are all alike & place scorpions neatly in our insides—we take pills thru the ass—we praise faggot missionaries & throw homosexuals into phenomenon gutters … in the winter a blackface musician announces he is from Two Women—he spends his free time trying to peel the moon & he’s here to collect his eight cent stamp—Marguerita the pusher, wheeling a cartful of Thursday up Damaen’s Row yelling “cockles & muscles,” kills him for getting in the way of her appetite … the rewards are few on Chemical Isle—little girls hide perfume up their shrimps & there are no giants—the warmongers have stolen all our german measles & are giving them to the doctors to use as bribes—i stayed awake for three hours last nite with Pearl—she claimed to have walked by a rooming house i once lived in—we had nothing in common, me & Pearl—i shared her boredom & had nothing to give her—i was drunk & entertained myself … we wish to make journeys & use everything excpt our feet & we meet tongue tied broken vulgar geeks with gorilla handshakes & drunken Hercules waits for us on our beds & we must salute him & he says that the new helicopters have arrived & “this is your geek” & “you will take your orders from him” yes the rewards are few here but there are no oaths to take nor mental strokes—excpt for the self conscious insanity brought in by hunters with radios wearing religious clothes, all goes well … Angola being bombed this morning, i right now am happy with nausea—my head is suffocating—i am gazing into the big dipper with silver buttoned blouse in my nostrils—i’m glad Marguerita’s all right—i Do feel expensive

  i am leaving my kid on your

  doorstep, if youre so hot, you’ll

  see that he gets taken care of.

  after all, he’s your kid too. i

  expct to see him in about twenty

  years, so you better do a good

  j
ob. i am going into the mountains

  to find work. i am taking along

  the food. remember luv, keep the

  stove clean & watch the gas tank

  yours

  louie louie

  Mae West Stomp (A Fable)

  train goes by every nite the same old time & he, same old man, sits looking into a rosary which reads “i told you so” while rocking back & forth thinking about his eldest son, Hambone, who’s in jail for life—buying beer for the kids & murdering the grocer with a pocket comb—this same old man, with nothing but a bathtub full of memories consisting of: a few Baby Huey for President buttons—a deck of cards with the aces missing—some empty deodorant bottle—a pamphlet of egyptian slogans—three pant legs that dont match & a hollow lynch rope … sits in a candy wrapper chair muttering day in court—day in court—i’ll get it yet—my day in court—a dapper young gentleman with chapped lips rubbed them on the old man’s neck today—the little old man is planning revenge just as the same old time train shakes his whistler’s mother painting off the wall & it gooses him to … day in court—i’ll get it yet—yesterday was not so good either—a fox left him in a clump of mud & some little pest let him have it right in the kisser with a mixture of bamboo, barley & rotten ice cream—there he sits wishing he could get thru to the president—the little old man’s bowels ache so he opens the window to breathe some good fresh air—he inhales deeply—there is a line full of wet underwear—used tires—dirty bed sheets—hats—chicken feathers—an old watermelon—paper plates & some other garments—johnny drumming wind—an indian, passing thru on his way to st. louis, is standing neath the old man’s window—“amazing” he says as he looks up & sees all this stuff on the clothesline suddenly get sucked into a hole … next day, the rent collector comes to get the rent—finds that the old man has disappeared & that the room’s full of garbage—the lady who owns the clothesline, she reports theft to the robbery department—“all my valuables have been stolen”—she mutters to the inspector—the train still goes by at the same old time & johnny drumming wind, he gets picked up for vagrancy—the rent collector looks around—steals a broken coocoo “i think i’ll give it to my wife” he says—his wife, who is six feet tall & wears a fez, & who, at the minute, by weird circumstance, is riding by on that same old time train—all in all, not much happens in Chicago

  i’m not saying that books are

  good or bad, but i dont think

  youve ever had the chance to find out for yourself what theyre all

  about—ok, so you used to get B’s

  in the ivanhoe tests & A minuses

  in the silas marners … then you

  wonder why you flunked the hamlet

  exams—yeah well that’s because one

  hoe & one lass do not make a spear—

  the same way two wrongs do not make

  a throng—now that youve been thru

  life, why dont you try again … you

  could start with a telephone book—

  wonder woman—or perhaps catcher in

  the rye—theyre all the same & everybody

  has their hat on backwards thru the

  stories

  see you at the docks

  helpfully yours,

  Sir Cringe

  Black Nite Crash

  aretha in the blues dunes—Pluto with the high crack laugh & rambling aretha—a menace to president as he was jokingly called—go—yea! & the seniority complex disowning you … Lear looking in the window dangerous & dragging a mountain & you say “no i am a mute” & he says “no no i’ve told the others you were Charlie Chaplin & now you must live up to it—you must!” & aretha saying “split Lear—none of us got the guts for infinity—take your driving wheel & split … & aretha next—she’s got these hundred Angel Strangers all passing thru saying “i will be your Shakti & your outlaw kid—pick me—pick me please—ah c’mon pick me” & aretha faking her intestinal black soul across all the fertile bubbles & whims & flashy winos—Jinx, Poet Void & Scary Plop all skipping to hell with their bunnies where food is cheaper & warmer & Nucleur Beethoven screaming “oh aretha—i shall be your voodoo doll—prick me—let’s make somebody hurt—draw on me whoever you wish! ah pretty please! my bastard frame—my slimy self—penetrate unto me—unto me!” Scholar, his body held together by chiclets—raw beans & slaves of days gone by—he storms in from the road—his pipe nearly eaten “look! she burps of reality” & but he’s not even talking to anybody—a moth flies out of his pocket & Void, the incredible fall apart reminds you once more of america with the dotted line—useless motive—the moral come on & silver haired men hiding in the violin cases … on a mound of phosphorus & success stands the voluptuous coyote eagle—he holds a half dollar—an anchor sways across his shoulders “good!” says Nucleur Beethoven “good to see there are some real birds around” “that’s no bird—that’s just a thief—he’s building an outhouse out of stolen lettuce!” signs aretha—Sound of Sound—who really doesnt give a damn about real birds or outhouses or any Nucleur Beethoven—approval, complaints & explanations—they all frighten her—she has no flaws in her trumpet—she knows that the sun is not a piece of her

  the audio repairman stumbles

  thru the door with—sound is sacred—

  so come in & talk to us” written on

  the back of his shirt

  Hostile Black Nite Crash

  on this abandoned roof or pagoda stool they place you & you hear voices saying things like “titen ’m up Joe—keep ’m titened up” & then Orion looking evil & he wipes you off & keeps you clean & Familiar Face himself “i heard you been eating some eggs? any truth to that?” & Orion licking his flesh & trouble in mind blues & shades of fire hydrants … YOU—the fire hydrant & Beau Geste, a fire hydrant—failures completely & walking to Gibraltar & trying to find your energy—get your kicks & shadow box your language … Faust from the garden—Emancipation Anne, who looks like a hungarian deer & Chump with a brain like an iceberg all imitating Africa … Dead Lover who hitchhikes & brags & says he’s going to Carthage & he keeps repeating “when i die” but then his mind goes black & blue & methodist butter erupting & Twinkle Clown with arabic lettering on his forehead wanting everybody to experience his fright “you must experience my fright to be my friend!” so says he to Lucy Tunia, whose vegetarian legs shine like mahogany & who comforts Twinkle Clown in his fits when he has no harem … Zing & Orion stutters & coughs & SHAZAMMM—the opium ghost neath the ferris wheel—on the side of the highway—where nobody can stop—where he can cause no trouble—where the show must go on … this is where He wishes to die—He wishes to die in the midst of cathedral bells—He wishes to die when the tornadoes strike the roofs & stools “so much for death” he will say when he dies

  the newsboy comes in the back door—

  his big toe sticks thru his shoe—he

  carries a piece of peeling with a

  number on it—he makes a phone call—

  then he blows his nose

  Unresponsible Black Nite Crash

  the united states is Not soundproof—you might think that nothing can reach those tens of thousands living behind the wall of dollar—but your fear Can bring in the truth … picture of dirt farmer—long Johns—coonskin cap—strangling himself on his shoe—his wife, tripping over the skulls—her hair in rats—their kid is wearing a scorpion—the scorpion wears glasses—the kid, he’s drinking gin—everybody has balloons stuck into their eyes—that they will never get a suntan in mexico is obvious—send your dollar today—bend over backwards … or shut your mouths forever

  the bully comes in—kicks the newsboy

  you know where—& begins ripping away

  at the audio repairman’s shirt

  Electric Black Nite Crash

  nature has made the young West Virginia miners not want to be miners but rather get this ’46 Chevy—no money down—take to Geneva … hunting for the likes of escape & Lord Buckley & Sherlock Holmes about to
be his mother turning to Starhole the Biology Amazon saying “i dont want to be my mother!” & e.e. cummings—spell it right—wrapping his leftover chicken bones in a pig tail belonging to Bronx Baby No. 2 & she thinks the world’s coming to an end & tries to organize a rally & her 320 pound Frenchman who sticks his tongue out at her father—he dont want no part of it—“i dont wanna go to no San Quentin! i’m not a criminal—i’m a foreigner & i cant help it if you dig e.e. cummings but me—like ah said—i’m just a foreigner” & she throws all these leftover chicken bones into his face & some celebrities passing by—they witness the whole thing & take down the serial numbers … Mona carries a lone ranger advertisement on her left front breast—Mona’s cousin—this 320 pound Frenchman—he resembles Arthur Conan Doyle … Mona—she resembles a sexy Buddha & always looks like she’s standing over the Golden Gate … she dont dig e.e. cummings—she digs Fernando Lamas—i am on a black train going west—there is no aretha on the desert—just—if you want—memories of aretha—but aretha teaches not to depend on memory—there is no aretha on the desert

  the stripper comes in wearing an

  engagement ring—she asks for lemonade,

  but says she’ll settle for a sandwich—

  the newsboy grabs her—yells “lord have

  mercy”

  Somebody’s Black Nite Crash

  from entire Mexico & gay innocence once comes Satan of Autumn—from the gentleness & barbarian bebop & lonesome rooms where you must put a nickel in the parking meter—into the arms of notorious daughters—daughters who get social poems published in bazaar & fashion magazines & wonder of adventure—beer barrel polkas & eat goofballs “why didnt HUAC get custer?” say some “how did robert burns escape hitler is what i’d like to know!” say the smarter ones—all the hipster T-bone heads & wheel chair Marxists wishing to be in Kansas City ’51 & Satan of Autumn & his friend, I DONT KNOW YOU, gnawing farts in the farmlands & coming back & telling everybody & then I DONT KNOW YOU finally coming to the conclusion “what good’s it all to tell everybody about anything—they all got alibis?” & then Montana coming & Aztec Landlords themselves—their atomic fag bars being looted & Bishops disguised as chocolate prisoners & the empty Barbary Coast haunted houses where the bureaucrats—the dreamy Huxley hanger oners—the New Awake with money Sc no place else to go & the ex cop who writes verse & thinks of himself as a salami & Gabby—the crippled horror from Telegraph Avenue but who wants to hear of this—who really wants to hear of this? “who wants to hear anything? we just a part of a generation! just one mangy grubby part!” said I DONT KNOW YOU one day to Satan & it was autumn “you mean like the hula hoop happening?” “no—like the crucifixion happening!” “like the Modern beat?” “like the beat of a peach tree” … both Satan & I DONT KNOW YOU—they skip thru the New York race track—all the typical renaissances & a blond that looks like ezra pound & they go right into Summer—without winter—seeing them so unsuffered, Lu with a crew cut, one of the chicks that write the big fat writings—her mouth hangs open—some beggar comes out of his hovel & hangs a hair from her lip&a streetcar crashes … but all in all—nobody really cares