Bean Spasms

for George Schneeman New York’s lovely weather hurts my forehead in praise of thee the? white dead whose eyes know: what are they of the tiny cloud my brain: The City’s tough red buttons: O Mars, red, angry planet, candy bar, with sky on top, “why, it’s young Leander hurrying to his death” what? what time is it in New York            in these here alps City of lovely tender hate and beauty making beautiful old rhymes? I ran away from you when you needed something strong then I leand against the toilet bowl (ack) Malcolm X I love my brain it all mine now is saved not knowing that & that (happily) being that: “wee kill our selves to propagate our kinde” John Donne yes, that’s true the hair on yr nuts & my big blood-filled cock are a part in that too PART 2 Mister Robert Dylan doesn’t feel well today That’s bad This picture doesn’t show that It’s not bad, too it’s very ritzy in fact here I stand I can’t stand to be thing I don’t use                            atop the empire state building & so sauntered out that door That reminds me of the time I wrote that long piece about a gangster name of “Jr.” O Harry James! had eyes to wander but lacked tongue to praise so later peed under his art paused only to lay a sneeze on Jack Dempsey asleep with his favorite Horse That reminds me of I buzz on & off Miró pop in & out a Castro convertible minute by minute                                           GENEROSITY! Yes now that the seasons totter in their walk I do a lot of wondering about Life      in praise of ladies dead of & Time plaza(s), Bryant Park by the Public                     eye of brow Library, Smith Bros. black boxes, Times Square Pirogi Houses with long skinny rivers thru them they lead the weary away off! hey! I’m no sailor off a ship at sea   I’M HERE & “The living is easy” It’s “HIGH TIME” & I’m in shapes of shadow, they certainly can warm, can’t they? Have you ever seen one?                                                NO! of those long skinny Rivers So well hung, in New York City NO!          in fact I’m the Wonderer & as yr train goes by                               forgive me, René!              ‘just oncet’ I woke up in Heaven He woke, and wondered more, how many angels on this train huh?                      snore for there she lay on sheets that mock lust                  done that 7 times been caught and brought back to a peach nobody. To Continue: Ron Padgett & Ted Berrigan hates yr brain my dears amidst the many other little buzzes & like, Today, as Ron Padgett might say is “A tub of vodka” “in the morning” she might reply and that keeps it up past icy poles where angels beg fr doom then zip ping in-and-out, joining the army wondering about Life by the Public Library of Life No Greater Thrill! (I wonder) Now that the earth is changing I wonder what time it’s getting to be sitting on the New York Times Square that actually very ritzy, Lauren    it’s made of yellow wood or I don’t know something               maybe This man was my                       it’s been fluffed up friend He had a sense for the vast                               doesn’t he? Awake my Angel! give thyself to the lovely hours        Don’t cheat The victory is not always to the sweet. I mean that. Now this picture is pretty good here Though it once got demerits from the lunatic Arthur Cravan He wasn’t feeling good that day Maybe because he had nothing on paint-wise I mean PART 3 I wrote that about what is this empty room            without a heart now in three parts a white flower came home wet & drunk                2 Pepsis and smashed my fist thru her window in the nude As the hand zips you see Old Masters, you can see well hung in New York              they grow fast here Conflicting, yet purposeful yet with outcry vain! PART 4 Praising, that’s it! you string a sonnet around yr fat gut and falling on your knees you invent the shoe for a horse. It brings you luck while sleeping “You have it seems a workshop nature” Have you                                              “Good Lord!” Some folks is wood seen them?                                          Ron Padgett wd say amidst the many other little buzzes past the neon on & off night & day     STEAK SANDWICH Have you ever tried one Anne?          SURE! “I wonder what time ‘its’?” as I sit on this new Doctor NO             I only look at buildings they’re in as you and he, I mean he & you & I buzz past in yellow ties      I call that gold THE HOTEL BUCKINGHAM (facade) is black, and taller than last time is looming over lunch         naked        high time        poem       & I, equal in perfection & desire is looming         two eyes         over coffee-cup (white) nature and man:         both hell on poetry. Art is art and life is “A monograph on infidelity” Oh. Forgive me stench of sandwich O pneumonia in American Poetry Do we have time?                           well look at Burroughs 7 times been caught and brought back to Mars & eaten. “Art is art & Life is home,” Fairfield Porter said that turning himself in Tonight arrives again in red some go on            even in Colorado                                 on the run the forests shake meaning: coffee            the cheerfulness of this poor fellow is terrible, hidden in the fringes of the eyelids’ blue mysteries          (I’M THE SKY) The sky is bleeding now onto 57th Street of the 20th Century & HORN & HARDART’S Right here. That’s PART 5 I’m not some sailor off a ship at sea I’m the wanderer                                                                (age 4) & now everyone is dead sinking bewildered of hand, of foot, of lip nude, thinking laughter burnished brighter than hate Goodbye. André Breton said that what a shit! Now he’s gone! up bubbles all his amorous breath & Monograph on Infidelity entitled The Living Dream I never again played I dreamt that December 27th, 1965 all in the blazon of sweet beauty’s breast I mean           “a rose”           Do you understand that? Do you? The rock&roll songs of this earth commingling absolute joy AND incontrovertible joy of intelligence certainly can warm can’t they?        YES! and they do Keeping eternal whisperings around (Mr. MacAdams writes in the nude: no that’s not (we want to take the underground         me that: then zips in & revolution to Harvard!)                 out the boring taxis, re- fusing to join the army and yet this girl has                asleep “on the springs” so much grace                   of red GENEROSITY) I wonder! Were all their praises simply prophecies of this the time!           NO GREATER THRILL my friends But I quickly forget them, those other times, for what are they but parts in the silver lining of the tiny cloud my brain drifting up into smoke the city’s tough blue top: I think a picture always leads you gently to someone else Don’t you? like when you ask to leave the room & go to the moon.