Autobiography

I am leading a quiet life   

in Mike’s Place every day   

watching the champs

of the Dante Billiard Parlor   

and the French pinball addicts.   

I am leading a quiet life   

on lower East Broadway.   

I am an American.

I was an American boy.

I read the American Boy Magazine   

and became a boy scout   

in the suburbs.

I thought I was Tom Sawyer   

catching crayfish in the Bronx River

and imagining the Mississippi.   

I had a baseball mit

and an American Flyer bike.

I delivered the Woman’s Home Companion   

at five in the afternoon

or the Herald Trib

at five in the morning.

I still can hear the paper thump   

on lost porches.

I had an unhappy childhood.   

I saw Lindbergh land.

I looked homeward

and saw no angel.

I got caught stealing pencils

from the Five and Ten Cent Store   

the same month I made Eagle Scout.

I chopped trees for the CCC   

and sat on them.

I landed in Normandy

in a rowboat that turned over.

I have seen the educated armies

on the beach at Dover.

I have seen Egyptian pilots in purple clouds   

shopkeepers rolling up their blinds   

at midday

potato salad and dandelions

at anarchist picnics.

I am reading ‘Lorna Doone’

and a life of John Most

terror of the industrialist

a bomb on his desk at all times.

I have seen the garbagemen parade   

in the Columbus Day Parade

behind the glib

farting trumpeters.

I have not been out to the Cloisters   

in a long time

nor to the Tuileries

but I still keep thinking

of going.

I have seen the garbagemen parade   

when it was snowing.

I have eaten hotdogs in ballparks.

I have heard the Gettysburg Address   

and the Ginsberg Address.

I like it here

and I won’t go back

where I came from.

I too have ridden boxcars boxcars boxcars.   

I have travelled among unknown men.   

I have been in Asia

with Noah in the Ark.

I was in India

when Rome was built.

I have been in the Manger

with an Ass.

I have seen the Eternal Distributor   

from a White Hill

in South San Francisco

and the Laughing Woman at Loona Park   

outside the Fun House

in a great rainstorm

still laughing.

I have heard the sound of revelry   

by night.

I have wandered lonely

as a crowd.

I am leading a quiet life

outside of Mike’s Place every day   

watching the world walk by

in its curious shoes.

I once started out

to walk around the world

but ended up in Brooklyn.

That Bridge was too much for me.   

I have engaged in silence

exile and cunning.

I flew too near the sun

and my wax wings fell off.

I am looking for my Old Man   

whom I never knew.

I am looking for the Lost Leader   

with whom I flew.

Young men should be explorers.   

Home is where one starts from.   

But Mother never told me

there’d be scenes like this.

Womb-weary

I rest

I have travelled.

I have seen goof city.

I have seen the mass mess.

I have heard Kid Ory cry.

I have heard a trombone preach.   

I have heard Debussy

strained thru a sheet.

I have slept in a hundred islands

where books were trees.   

I have heard the birds   

that sound like bells.

I have worn grey flannel trousers

and walked upon the beach of hell.

I have dwelt in a hundred cities

where trees were books.

What subways what taxis what cafes!

What women with blind breasts

limbs lost among skyscrapers!

I have seen the statues of heroes

at carrefours.

Danton weeping at a metro entrance

Columbus in Barcelona

pointing Westward up the Ramblas

toward the American Express   

Lincoln in his stony chair   

And a great Stone Face   

in North Dakota.

I know that Columbus   

did not invent America.

I have heard a hundred housebroken Ezra Pounds.   

They should all be freed.   

It is long since I was a herdsman.

I am leading a quiet life   

in Mike’s Place every day   

reading the Classified columns.

I have read the Reader’s Digest

from cover to cover

and noted the close identification

of the United States and the Promised Land

where every coin is marked   

In God We Trust

but the dollar bills do not have it

being gods unto themselves.   

I read the Want Ads daily   

looking for a stone a leaf   

an unfound door.

I hear America singing

in the Yellow Pages.

One could never tell

the soul has its rages.

I read the papers every day   

and hear humanity amiss

in the sad plethora of print.

I see where Walden Pond has been drained   

to make an amusement park.   

I see they’re making Melville   

eat his whale.

I see another war is coming   

but I won’t be there to fight it.   

I have read the writing

on the outhouse wall.

I helped Kilroy write it.

I marched up Fifth Avenue

blowing on a bugle in a tight platoon   

but hurried back to the Casbah   

looking for my dog.

I see a similarity

between dogs and me.

Dogs are the true observers   

walking up and down the world   

thru the Molloy country.

I have walked down alleys   

too narrow for Chryslers.

I have seen a hundred horseless milkwagons   

in a vacant lot in Astoria.

Ben Shahn never painted them   

but they’re there

askew in Astoria.

I have heard the junkman’s obbligato.   

I have ridden superhighways   

and believed the billboard’s promises   

Crossed the Jersey Flats

and seen the Cities of the Plain

And wallowed in the wilds of Westchester

with its roving bands of natives

in stationwagons.

I have seen them.

I am the man.   

I was there.   

I suffered

somewhat.

I am an American.

I have a passport.

I did not suffer in public.

And I’m too young to die.

I am a selfmade man.

And I have plans for the future.

I am in line   

for a top job.

I may be moving on

to Detroit.

I am only temporarily

a tie salesman.

I am a good Joe.

I am an open book

to my boss.

I am a complete mystery

to my closest friends.

I am leading a quiet life

in Mike’s Place every day   

contemplating my navel.

I am a part

of the body’s long madness.

I have wandered in various nightwoods.   

I have leaned in drunken doorways.

I have written wild stories

without punctuation.

I am the man.

I was there.   

I suffered   

somewhat.

I have sat in an uneasy chair.

I am a tear of the sun.   

I am a hill

where poets run.

I invented the alphabet

after watching the flight of cranes   

who made letters with their legs.

I am a lake upon a plain.   

I am a word

in a tree.

I am a hill of poetry.   

I am a raid

on the inarticulate.

I have dreamt

that all my teeth fell out   

but my tongue lived   

to tell the tale.

For I am a still

of poetry.

I am a bank of song.   

I am a playerpiano

in an abandoned casino   

on a seaside esplanade   

in a dense fog

still playing.

I see a similarity

between the Laughing Woman

and myself.

I have heard the sound of summer   

in the rain.

I have seen girls on boardwalks   

have complicated sensations.   

I understand their hesitations.

I am a gatherer of fruit.   

I have seen how kisses   

cause euphoria.

I have risked enchantment.   

I have seen the Virgin   

in an appletree at Chartres

And Saint Joan burn

at the Bella Union.

I have seen giraffes in junglejims

their necks like love

wound around the iron circumstances   

of the world.

I have seen the Venus Aphrodite   

armless in her drafty corridor.   

I have heard a siren sing   

at One Fifth Avenue.

I have seen the White Goddess dancing   

in the Rue des Beaux Arts   

on the Fourteenth of July   

and the Beautiful Dame Without Mercy   

picking her nose in Chumley’s.   

She did not speak English.   

She had yellow hair

and a hoarse voice

I am leading a quiet life   

in Mike’s Place every day   

watching the pocket pool players   

making the minestrone scene   

wolfing the macaronis   

and I have read somewhere   

the Meaning of Existence   

yet have forgotten

just exactly where.

But I am the man

And I’ll be there.

And I may cause the lips   

of those who are asleep   

to speak.

And I may make my notebooks   

into sheaves of grass.   

And I may write my own   

eponymous epitaph

instructing the horsemen   

to pass.

Sometime During Eternity...

Sometime during eternity

                                                       some guys show up   

and one of them

                      who shows up real late

                                                       is a kind of carpenter   

      from some square-type place

                                              like Galilee

          and he starts wailing

                                          and claiming he is hip

            to who made heaven

                                       and earth

                                                      and that the cat

                   who really laid it on us

                                                 is his Dad

          And moreover

             he adds

                         It’s all writ down

                                              on some scroll-type parchments   

          which some henchmen

                  leave lying around the Dead Sea somewheres   

                a long time ago

                                       and which you won’t even find   

         for a coupla thousand years or so

                                                 or at least for

      nineteen hundred and fortyseven

                                                      of them

                            to be exact

                                             and even then

         nobody really believes them

                                                   or me

                                                            for that matter

          You’re hot

                         they tell him

          And they cool him

          They stretch him on the Tree to cool

                         And everybody after that

                                                               is always making models   

                                          of this Tree

                                                          with Him hung up   

          and always crooning His name

                                     and calling Him to come down   

                                 and sit in

                                                 on their combo

                           as if he is the king cat

                                                            who’s got to blow   

                      or they can’t quite make it

                      Only he don’t come down

                                                         from His Tree

          Him just hang there

                                       on His Tree

          looking real Petered out

                                          and real cool

                                                             and also

                   according to a roundup

                                                    of late world news   

             from the usual unreliable sources

                                                               real dead

The World is a Beautiful Place

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind happiness
not always being
so very much fun
if you don't mind a touch of hell
now and then
just when everything is fine
because even in heaven
they don't sing
all the time

The world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't mind some people dying
all the time
or maybe only starving
some of the time
which isn't half bad
if it isn't you

Oh the world is a beautiful place
to be born into
if you don't much mind
a few dead minds
in the higher places
or a bomb or two
now and then
in your upturned faces
or such other improprieties
as our Name Brand society
is prey to
with its men of distinction
and its men of extinction
and its priests
and other patrolmen

and its various segregations
and congressional investigations
and other constipations
that our fool flesh
is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
for a lot of such things as
making the fun scene
and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
and singing low songs and having inspirations
and walking around
looking at everything
and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
and even thinking
and kissing people and
making babies and wearing pants
and waving hats and
dancing
and going swimming in rivers
on picnics
in the middle of the summer
and just generally
'living it up'
Yes
but then right in the middle of it
comes the smiling

mortician