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 Oct 2016 Leaetta May
st64
To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the ****** disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.

                       - *Arundhati Roy
blessed be.
 Oct 2016 Leaetta May
st64
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
  


Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children



Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana



Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims

She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother



Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts



What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin

Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare



What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it



So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon



You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!



Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!



Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
howdy :)
 Oct 2016 Leaetta May
st64
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 *** out and screamed:
"You always end up a ******!"

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!"
Gregory Corso (1930–2001)



Gregory Corso was a key member of the Beat movement, a group of convention-breaking writers who were credited with sparking much of the social and political change that transformed the United States in the 1960s. Corso's spontaneous, insightful, and inspirational verse once prompted fellow Beat poet Allen Ginsberg to describe him as an "awakener of youth." Although Corso enjoyed his greatest level of popularity during the 1960s and 1970s, he continued to influence contemporary readers and critics late into the twentieth century. Writing in the American Book Review, Dennis Barone remarked that Corso's 1989 volume of new and selected poems was a sign that "despite doubt, uncertainty, the American way, death all around, Gregory Corso will continue, and I am glad he will."

Born in 1930 to teenaged parents who separated a year after his birth, Corso spent his early childhood in foster homes and orphanages. At the age of eleven, he went to live with his natural father, who had remarried. A troubled youth, Corso repeatedly ran away and was eventually sent to a boys' home. One year later he was caught selling a stolen radio and was forced to testify in court against the dealer who purchased the illegal merchandise. While he was held as a material witness in the trial, the twelve-year-old boy spent several months in prison where, as he wrote in a biographical sketch for The New American Poetry, the other prisoners "abused me terribly, and I was indeed like an angel then because when they stole my food and beat me up and threw *** in my cell, I . . . would come out and tell them my beautiful dream about a floating girl who landed before a deep pit and just stared." He later spent three months under observation at Bellevue Hospital.

When Corso was sixteen, he returned to jail to serve a three-year sentence for theft. There he read widely in the classics, including Fyodor Dostoevsky, Stendahl, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Thomas Chatterton, and Christopher Marlowe. After his release in 1950, he worked as a laborer in New York City, a newspaper reporter in Los Angeles, and a sailor on a boat to Africa and South America. It was in New York City that he first met Ginsberg, the Beat poet with whom he was most closely associated. The pair met in a Greenwich Village bar in 1950 while Corso was working on his first poems. Until then he had read only traditional poetry, and Ginsberg introduced him to contemporary, experimental work. Within a few years Corso was writing in long, Whitmanesque lines similar to those Ginsberg had developed in his own work. The surreal word combinations that began to appear in Ginsberg's work about the same time may in turn suggest Corso's reciprocal influence.

Corso once explained his use of rhythm and meter in an interview with Gavin Selerie for Riverside Interviews: "My music is built in—it's already natural. I don't play with the meter." In other words, Corso believes the meter must arise naturally from the poet's voice; it is never consciously chosen.

Corso shaped his poems from 1970 to 1974 into a book he planned to call Who Am I—Who I Am, but the manuscript was stolen, and there were no other copies. Aside from chapbooks and a few miscellaneous publications, he did not issue other work until 1981 when Herald of the Autochthonic Spirit appeared. Shorter than any of his major books since Gasoline, it contains several critically acclaimed poems, many of them written in clipped, almost prosaic lines more reminiscent of William Carlos Williams than of Whitman. "Return" deals with barren times in which there had been no poems but also asserts that the poet can now write again and that "the past is my future." The new poems, however, are generally more subdued than the earlier ones, though there are surreal flights, as in "The Whole Mess . . . Almost," in which the poet cleans his apartment of Truth, God, Beauty, Death, and essentially everything but Humor.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGam9Z6PSWk
My taste for elbow macaroni has ne'er returned and will not anytime soon because it was my only source of sustenance one-time during a particularly rough month of June* .....
Copyright October 17 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

I came pretty close to physical death and wrote some beautiful music ..
To see the world with the eye of a photographer
To know true colors and their importance in working together , completing the page , punctuality , knowledge of shadow , the art of location , background from forefront , 'twould help all of us quite well* ..
Copyright October 17 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
When offered chocolate grab as much
as one hand can hold
Drink fine liquor till it's all gone
Bask in sunshine all day until it hops over the
horizon
Eat the dewberries of summer without
reservation , make room for good cheese ,
good wine and hot buttered bread on every
occasion
Sample the perfume of every rose in the garden
Take hot baths with Peppermint tea and shortbread
cookies , do it with music blaring , do it often* ...
Copyright October 18 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The Hickory's are beautiful when they're dying
Living stained glass windows are born , prosper
then they gracefully comply
Giving fractured souls a sturdy hold , a clue on
growing old , a message to live ones life colorful and bold* ...
Copyright October 18 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
I rule the Principality of Randolph and no other
I stand unshackled by political thought and the misdirection of my fathers
I've no tolerance for the panicked Gen X , Y nor Z enlightened , for I
glow vividly in the darkened apparatus of my own tinkering mind as well
I hold a book of Sandburg poetry with my right hand ,
a mattock in the left , the hefty chain of truth around
my neck , a Cherokee rose in a left pocket , a revolver in the right
I am a firm believer in the barbed wire cattle fence , bone chilling
November front porch mornings with black coffee and biscuit
The call of an Iron Bell , the clear ringing notes of mournful Dove , watchful Crow and story filled Whippoorwill* ...
Copyright October 17 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
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