Gregory Corso

There’s a truth limits man A truth prevents his going any farther The world is changing The world knows it’s changing Heavy is the sorrow of the day The old have the look of doom The young mistake their fate in that look That is truth But it isn’t all truth Life has meaning And I do not know the meaning Even when I felt it were meaningless I hoped and prayed and sought a meaning It wasn’t all frolic poesy There were dues to pay Summoning Death and God I’d a wild dare to tackle Them Death proved meaningless without Life Yes the world is changing But Death remains the same It takes man away from Life The only meaning he knows And usually it is a sad business This Death I’d an innocence I’d a seriousness I’d a humor save me from amateur philosophy I am able to contradict my beliefs I am able able Because I want to know the meaning of everything Yet sit I like a brokenness Moaning: Oh what responsibility I put on thee Gregory Death and God Hard hard it’s hard I learned life were no dream I learned truth deceived Man is not God Life is a century Death an instant

a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem I am 32 years old and finally I look my age, if not more. Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face? It seems fatter. And my hair, it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big? The lips are the same. And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time. 32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts, but there’s lots of time. I don’t act silly any more. And because of it I have to hear from so-called friends: “You’ve changed. You used to be so crazy so great.” They are not comfortable with me when I’m serious. Let them go to the Radio City Music Hall. 32; saw all of Europe, met millions of people; was great for some, terrible for others. I remember my 31st year when I cried: “To think I may have to go another 31 years!” I don’t feel that way this birthday. I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library in a deep chair by a fireplace. Another year in which I stole nothing. 8 years now and haven’t stole a thing! I stopped stealing! But I still lie at times, and still am shameless yet ashamed when it comes to asking for money. 32 years old and four hard real funny sad bad wonderful books of poetry —the world owes me a million dollars. I think I had a pretty weird 32 years. And it weren’t up to me, none of it. No choice of two roads; if there were, I don’t doubt I’d have chosen both. I like to think chance had it I play the bell. The clue, perhaps, is in my unabashed declaration: “I’m good example there’s such a thing as called soul.” I love poetry because it makes me love and presents me life. And of all the fires that die in me, there’s one burns like the sun; it might not make day my personal life, my association with people, or my behavior toward society, but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.

I ran up six flights of stairs to my small furnished room opened the window and began throwing out those things most important in life First to go, Truth, squealing like a fink: “Don’t! I’ll tell awful things about you!” “Oh yeah? Well, I’ve nothing to hide ... OUT!” Then went God, glowering & whimpering in amazement: “It’s not my fault! I’m not the cause of it all!” “OUT!” Then Love, cooing bribes: “You’ll never know impotency! All the girls on Vogue covers, all yours!” I pushed her fat ass out and screamed: “You always end up a bummer!” I picked up Faith Hope Charity all three clinging together: “Without us you’ll surely die!” “With you I’m going nuts! Goodbye!” Then Beauty ... ah, Beauty— As I led her to the window I told her: “You I loved best in life ... but you’re a killer; Beauty kills!” Not really meaning to drop her I immediately ran downstairs getting there just in time to catch her “You saved me!” she cried I put her down and told her: “Move on.” Went back up those six flights went to the money there was no money to throw out. The only thing left in the room was Death hiding beneath the kitchen sink: “I’m not real!” It cried “I’m just a rumor spread by life ... ” Laughing I threw it out, kitchen sink and all and suddenly realized Humor was all that was left— All I could do with Humor was to say: “Out the window with the window!”

1 I reached heaven and it was syrupy. It was oppressively sweet. Croaking substances stuck to my knees. Of all substances St. Michael was stickiest. I grabbed him and pasted him on my head. I found God a gigantic fly paper. I stayed out of his way. I walked where everything smelled of burnt chocolate. Meanwhile St. Michael was busy with his sword hacking away at my hair. I found Dante standing naked in a blob of honey. Bears were licking his thighs. I snatched St. Michael’s sword and quartered myself in a great circular adhesive. My torso fell upon an elastic equilibrium. As though shot from a sling my torso whizzed at God fly paper. My legs sank into some unimaginable sog. My head, though weighed with the weight of St. Michael, did not fall. Fine strands of multi-colored gum suspended it there. My spirit stopped by my snared torso. I pulled! I yanked! Rolled it left to right! It bruised! It softened! It could not free! The struggle of an Eternity! An Eternity of pulls! of yanks! Went back to my head, St. Michael had sucked dry my brainpan! Skull! My skull! Only skull in heaven! Went to my legs. St. Peter was polishing his sandals with my knees! I pounced upon him! Pummeled his face in sugar in honey in marmalade! Under each arm I fled with my legs! The police of heaven were in hot pursuit! I hid within the sop of St. Francis. Gasping in the confectionery of his gentility I wept, caressing my intimidated legs. 2 They caught me. They took my legs away. They sentenced me in the firmament of an ass. The prison of an Eternity! An Eternity of labor! of hee-haws! Burdened with the soiled raiment of saints I schemed escape. Lugging ampullae its daily fill I schemed escape. I schemed climbing impossible mountains. I schemed under the Virgin’s whip. I schemed to the sound of celestial joy. I schemed to the sound of earth, the wail of infants, the groans of men, the thud of coffins. I schemed escape. God was busy switching the spheres from hand to hand. The time had come. I cracked my jaws. Broke my legs. Sagged belly-flat on plow on pitchfork on scythe. My spirit leaked from the wounds. A whole spirit pooled. I rose from the carcass of my torment. I stood in the brink of heaven. And I swear that Great Territory did quake when I fell, free.

1 I am a great American I am almost nationalistic about it! I love America like a madness! But I am afraid to return to America I’m even afraid to go into the American Express— 2 They are frankensteining Christ in America in their Sunday campaigns They are putting the fear of Christ in America under their tents in their Sunday campaigns They are driving old ladies mad with Christ in America They are televising the gift of healing and the fear of hell in America under their tents in their Sunday campaigns They are leaving their tents and are bringing their Christ to the stadiums of America in their Sunday campaigns They are asking for a full house an all get out for their Christ in the stadiums of America They are getting them in their Sunday and Saturday campaigns They are asking them to come forward and fall on their knees because they are all guilty and they are coming forward in guilt and are falling on their knees weeping their guilt begging to be saved O Lord O Lord in their Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday and Sunday campaigns 3 It is a time in which no man is extremely wondrous It is a time in which rock stupidity outsteps the 5th Column as the sole enemy in America It is a time in which ignorance is a good Ameri-cun ignorance is excused only where it is so it is not so in America Man is not guilty   Christ is not to be feared I am telling you the American Way is a hideous monster eating Christ   making Him into Oreos and Dr. Pepper the sacrament of its foul mouth I am telling you the devil is impersonating Christ in America America’s educators & preachers are the mental-dictators of false intelligence   they will not allow America to be smart they will only allow death to make America smart Educators & communicators are the lackeys of the American Way They enslave the minds of the young and the young are willing slaves (but not for long) because who is to doubt the American Way is not the way? The duty of these educators is no different than the duty of a factory foreman Replica production   make all the young think alike dress alike   believe alike   do alike Togetherness   this is the American Way The few great educators in America are weak & helpless They abide   and so uphold the American Way Wars have seen such men   they who despised things about them but did nothing   and they are the most dangerous Dangerous because their intelligence is not denied and so give faith to the young who rightfully believe in their intelligence Smoke this cigarette doctors smoke this cigarette and doctors know Educators know   but they dare not speak their know The victory that is man is made sad in this fix Youth can only know the victory of being born all else is stemmed   until death be the final victory and a merciful one at that If America falls it will be the blame of its educators preachers   communicators   alike America today is America’s greatest threat We are old when we are young America is always new   the world is always new The meaning of the world is birth not death Growth gone in the wrong direction The true direction grows ever young In this direction what grows grows old A strange mistake   a strange and sad mistake for it has grown into an old thing while all else around it is new Rockets will not make it any younger— And what made America decide to grow? I do not know   I can only hold it to the strangeness in man And America has grown into the American Way— To be young is to be ever purposeful   limitless To grow is to know limit   purposelessness Each age is a new age How outrageous it is that something old and sad from the pre-age incorporates each new age— Do I say the Declaration of Independence is old? Yes I say what was good for 1789, is not good for 1960 It was right and new to say all men were created equal because it was a light then But today it is tragic to say it today it should be fact— Man has been on earth a long time One would think with his mania for growth he would, by now, have outgrown such things as constitutions manifestos codes commandments that he could well live in the world without them and know instinctively how to live and be —for what is being but the facility to love? Was not that the true goal of growth, love? Was not that Christ? But man is strange and grows where he will and chalks it all up to Fate   whatever be— America rings with such strangeness It has grown into something strange and the American is good example of this mad growth The boy man   big baby meat as though the womb were turned backwards giving birth to an old man The victory that is man does not allow man to top off his empirical achievement with death The Aztecs did it by yanking out young hearts at the height of their power The Americans are doing it by feeding their young to the Way For it was not the Spaniard who killed the Aztec but the Aztec who killed the Aztec Rome is proof   Greece is proof   all history is proof Victory does not allow degeneracy It will not be the Communists will kill America no   but America itself— The American Way   that sad mad process is not run by any one man or organization It is a monster born of itself   existing of its self The men who are employed by this monster are employed unknowingly They reside in the higher echelons of intelligence They are the educators the psychiatrists the ministers the writers the politicians the communicators the rich the entertainment world And some follow and sing the Way because they sincerely believe it to be good And some believe it holy and become minutemen in it Some are in it simply to be in And most are in it for gold They do not see the Way as monster They see it as the “Good Life” What is the Way? The Way was born out of the American Dream a nightmare— The state of Americans today compared to the Americans of the 18th century proves the nightmare— Not Franklin not Jefferson who speaks for America today but strange red-necked men of industry and the goofs of show business Bizarre! Frightening! The Mickey Mouse sits on the throne and Hollywood has a vast supply— Could grammar school youth seriously look upon a picture of George Washington and “Herman Borst” the famous night club comedian together at Valley Forge? Old old and decadent   gone the dignity the American sun seems headed for the grave O that youth might raise it anew! The future depends solely on the young The future is the property of the young What the young know the future will know What they are and do the future will be and do What has been done must not be done again Will the American Way allow this? No. I see in every American Express and in every army center in Europe I see the same face the same sound of voice the same clothes the same walk I see mothers & fathers no difference among them Replicas They not only speak and walk and think alike they have the same face! What did this monstrous thing? What regiments a people so? How strange is nature’s play on America Surely were Lincoln alive today he could never be voted President   not with his looks— Indeed Americans are babies all in the embrace of Mama Way Did not Ike, when he visited the American Embassy in Paris a year ago, say to the staff—“Everything is fine, just drink Coca Cola, and everything will be all right.” This is true, and is on record Did not American advertising call for TOGETHERNESS? not orgiasticly like today’s call nor as means to stem violence This is true, and is on record. Are not the army centers in Europe ghettos? They are, and O how sad   how lost! The PX newsstands are filled with comic books The army movies are always Doris Day What makes a people huddle so? Why can’t they be universal? Who has smalled them so? This is serious! I do not mock or hate this I can only sense some mad vast conspiracy! Helplessness is all it is! They are caught   caught in the Way— And those who seek to get out of the Way can not The Beats are good example of this They forsake the Way’s habits and acquire for themselves their own habits And they become as distinct and regimented and lost as the main flow because the Way has many outlets like a snake of many tentacles— There is no getting out of the Way The only way out is the death of the Way And what will kill the Way but a new consciousness Something great and new and wonderful must happen to free man from this beast It is a beast we can not see or even understand For it be the condition of our minds God how close to science fiction it all seems! As if some power from another planet incorporated itself in the minds of us all It could well be! For as I live I swear America does not seem like America to me Americans are a great people I ask for some great and wondrous event that will free them from the Way and make them a glorious purposeful people once again I do not know if that event is due   deserved or even possible I can only hold that man is the victory of life And I hold firm to American man I see standing on the skin of the Way America   to be as proud and victorious as St. Michael on the neck of the fallen Lucifer—

O this political air so heavy with the bells and motors of a slow night, and no place to rest but rain to walk—How it rings the Washington streets! The umbrella’d congressmen; the rapping tires of big black cars, the shoulders of lobbyists caught under canopies and in doorways, and it rains, it will not let up, and meanwhile lame futurists weep into Spengler’s prophecy, will the world be over before the races blend color? All color must be one or let the world be done— There’ll be a chance, we’ll all be orange! I don’t want to be orange! Nothing about God’s color to complain; and there is a beauty in yellow, the old Lama in his robe the color of Cathay; in black a strong & vital beauty, Thelonious Monk in his robe of Norman charcoal— And if Western Civilization comes to an end (though I doubt it, for the prophet has not executed his prophecy) surely the Eastern child will sit by a window, and wonder the old statues, the ornamented doors; the decorated banquet of the West— Inflamed by futurists I too weep in rain at night at the midnight of Western Civilization; Dante’s step into Hell will never be forgotten by Hell; the Gods’ adoption of Homer will never be forgotten by the Gods; the books of France are on God’s bookshelf; no civil war will take place on the fields of God; and I don’t doubt the egg of the East its glory— Yet it rains and the motors go and continued when I slept by that wall in Washington which separated the motors in the death-parlor where Joe McCarthy lay, lean and stilled, ten blocks from the Capitol— I could never understand Uncle Sam his red & white striped pants his funny whiskers his starry hat: how surreal Yankee Doodle Dandy, goof! American history has a way of making you feel George Washington is still around, that is when I think of Washington I do not think of Death— Of all Presidents I have been under Hoover is the most unreal and FDR is the most President-looking and Truman the most Jewish-looking and Eisenhower the miscast of Time into Space— Hoover is another America, Mr. 1930 and what must he be thinking now? FDR was my youth, and how strange to still see his wife around. Truman is still in Presidential time. I saw Eisenhower helicopter over Athens and he looked at the Acropolis like only Zeus could. OF THE PEOPLE is fortunate and select. FOR THE PEOPLE has never happened in America or elsewhere. BY THE PEOPLE is the sadness of America. I am not politic. I am not patriotic. I am nationalistic! I boast well the beauty of America to all the people in Europe. In me they do not see their vision of America. O whenever I pass an American Embassy I don’t know what to feel! Sometimes I want to rush in and scream: “I’m American!” but instead go a few paces down to the American Bar get drunk and cry: “I’m no American!” The men of politics I love are but youth’s fantasy: The fine profile of Washington on coins stamps & tobacco wraps The handsomeness and death-in-the-snow of Hamilton. The eyeglasses shoe-buckles kites & keys of Ben Franklin. The sweet melancholy of Lincoln. The way I see Christ, as something romantic & unreal, is the way I see them. An American is unique among peoples. He looks and acts like a boyman. He never looks cruel in uniform. He is rednecked portly rich and jolly. White-haired serious Harvard, kind and wry. A convention man a family man a rotary man & practical joker. He is moonfaced cunning well-meaning & righteously mean. He is Madison Avenue, handsome, in-the-know, and superstitious. He is odd, happy, quicker than light, shameless, and heroic Great yawn of youth! The young don’t seem interested in politics anymore. Politics has lost its romance! The “bloody kitchen” has drowned! And all that is left are those granite façades of Pentagon, Justice, and Department— Politicians do not know youth! They depend on the old and the old depend on them and lo! this has given youth a chance to think of heaven in their independence. No need to give them liberty or freedom where they’re at— When Stevenson in 1956 came to San Francisco he campaigned in what he thought was an Italian section! He spoke of Italy and Joe DiMaggio and spaghetti, but all who were there, all for him, were young beatniks! and when his car drove off Ginsberg & I ran up to him and yelled: “When are you going to free the poets from their attics!” Great yawn of youth! Mad beautiful oldyoung America has no candidate the craziest wildest greatest country of them all! and not one candidate— Nixon arrives ever so temporal, self-made, frontways sideways and backways, could he be America’s against? Detour to vehicle? Mast to wind? Shore to sea? Death to life? The last President?