The greatest naked woman who ever breathed walks hand in hand with Jesus
The drunken Gnostic poet, glowing like Ginger Rogers—
The British grandmother having to choose between pantyhose or fishnets,
With an *** like a concept album, kissing an old man in the park,
Smelling the fat girl’s ****** sweat from across the field—
Perfection ending in nothingness—
But who can resist a European accent that thick,
Sweaty toes dancing on my tongue,
Must I ******* without syntax in your blue dress and fur—
No one wanting to go to heaven alone,
Take your Chinese wife made of gold—
The News comes on in a minute,
God’s shining face repeating the Ten Commandments
In fluent Aramaic and her eyes bursting like rotten eggs,
She’s fond of laughing in the dark—
And I’ve never met a ***** that I couldn’t live without
But the stars are eternal and the camera never stops—
The mother of all wormholes,
Socrates trying to argue with a child
On the streets of Pyongyang but only gets arrested when she smiles
And confesses to her Canadian soul
I’m wishing and praying, hoping and trying,
Her *** is bleeding but the BBC won’t announce it—
She walking in smoking, laughing,
Poetry like a puzzle,
Republican as Plato walking the yard—
He gets his point across with paint
And the millions are still rolling in,
Elise’s face is like the shining sun but she’s no Bettie
Jack the shaman cries out at the foot of the totem
And she appeared in a ring of miracles
I’ve loved more than one ugly woman,
They couldn’t choose their faces—
If only I knew then I could flip them on their bellies
And **** their *** joyfully,
I might still be in love to this day but most likely not
She’s crying out to space and the ghost of Jackson ******* walks in
Drunk as usual, if only we were together and you didn’t have *** on your face
De Kooning’s wife gave him a bad name and ******* took the prize—
Don’t be afraid of the past, Krakatoa, the Titanic, or the World Trade Center
The poets will protect you from the night and the rain,
Quetzalcoatl chasing after the sun with a rainbow in both fists,
Your baby’s face smiling at you, the entire solar system spinning,
The Lost Generation was found in the street by the Beats
Who ran straight into their dealer’s arms—
Her cartoon machine-gun laughter like Chicago’s south Side,
Like Boston during a Marathon exploding and imploding,
Running faster and faster;
TS Eliot was like a god to a certain generation, not this one—
Prayers and explosions in Texas—celebrity hoes knocking at the door
Like zombies on a rampage—Rod Serling traveled back in time to Warsaw—
Mormon prophets hook up with Muslim prostitutes,
Hot stones and flames—
Hispanic housewife washing dishes while calculating her autobiography,
Religion only makes sense if there is no God, because if there is a God,
Face it we’re *******—
I am that I am, in the world today we live looking backwards,
It’s like living at the bottom of a grave—
Your generation is an illusion, one created over and over
Her dream of being a movie star was realized 81/2 years ago—
Eve in the garden of skulls, hairy as hell, waging war over tea
******* queen or gift from god, throwing up in her face,
A rarely seen soul steals through the room, out the window and over the bridge
This blonde, not every mother is the mother of us all,
So cold she begs for dreams—
Alysha appears in the night smoky like love, abandoned automatically,
Mother sleeps with her eyes open because she’s so perfect,
She can even think with the window open—
GOOGLE plugs us all into eternity, her bared teeth like British razors squared—
Not content with the Protestant Bible Pound advocated Cubism
And gave it to the Chinese sky—
Do not be afraid of history, it is not the past,
Only ghosts roaming through your living room
In disheveled clothes like mock soldiers or digital burlesque saints
Alysha in her tattoos is not as beautiful as an ugly mother throwing up
From choking on ****—
Nothing could ever be so wonderful,
As your baby’s face smiling at you as she tries on her new leopard print bra
With matching *******—
No more gun deals for the tribes of Israel, no more living in the past
Don’t be afraid of the future, the senile brain prophesying
Penelope’s return in her dark cloak, her fat *** more desirable than ever—
Her thong of beetles and her paper face can’t do us any harm,
As long as her robot-clone kisses the Pope’s diamond ring—
Quetzalcoatl chasing him with a rainbow, Cthulu swallowing the earth whole— He couldn’t stop the visions that eventually became waking nightmares…
He would dream of sniffing the soiled crotch of her pantyhose
While ******* her toes and licking her feet, he saw no way of staying alive
Except by becoming a poet and a painter and told no one he was a prophet—
She became a go-go dancer at a ****** club because they had to eat—
For him art and literature were everything,
It seemed every woman was a go-go dancer and every man a painter…
He still had visions, has them to this day…
He will never stop being a prophet
He was born that way, his path set clearly before him,
Past and future foretold—
And all the while you’re saying, what does any of this have to do with me or my mother or quantum mechanics or Cubism or Adolf ****** and the Third *****…
Those things were already in the past, like comic books, except horror comics,
The lost generation, the Algonquin circle, social realism or any kind of realism—
A prophet was born in 1961 in Harlem not of his own choosing
His best friends were drunks, junkies, thieves, poets, painters and *****
And his visions were relentless
Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker and John Coltrane
And Miles Davis created bebop…
There was Tempest Storm and Blaze Starr
And the thousand other burlesque queens including Gypsy Rose Lee,
The greatest of them all and into this maelstrom of bebop, Beat literature, method acting, burlesque, abstract expressionist paint throwing ******* magazine and Bob Dylan,
Sylvia Plath, Ann Sexton and the Confessional Poetry movement,
Feminism and the Civil Rights and Black Power movements,
Gay rights, the Stonewall riots, Times Square,
*******, drugs, prostitutes and perverts
Jack Kerouac and Bettie Page were both Christians,
He a Roman Catholic and she an evangelical…
******* was a drunk in Jungian analysis married to a Jew,
Kerouac and ******* looked lovingly upon Bettie Page’s figure,
Naked, near naked, bound and gagged, binding and gagging,
Hanging, hogtied in stockings and garters and high-high heels
Or babydolls and slippers lounging on a daybed
Or playfully posing in a field amidst an ocean of pinups
On a newsstand where she was featured in every magazine most often smiling…
Kerouac and ******* both listened to bebop jazz,
The revitalized urban strain of jazz that took off from swing,
Bettie was from the south, Kerouac from New England
And ******* from the Midwest,
All three came into their own in New York City,
Manhattan particularly, where Kerouac attended Columbia,
******* studied at the Art Student’s League and later signed with Peggy Guggenheim
And Bettie was discovered in a bikini on the beach
And soon became a regular at “camera club” meetings…
Besides Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs and the other Beats,
There the other Abstract Expressionists, and Bunny Yeager and Irving Klaw…
There was Marilyn and James Dean and the other method actors at the Actor’s Studio,
And Tennessee Williams and Clifford Odets and Arthur Miller,
Whom Marilyn later married—
When he closes his eyes he can still smell her sweaty feet
And her mother’s sweaty feet and his mother’s sweaty feet…
The visions are relentless and show no sign of stopping so he stares into the darkness hoping to see the light of god come to rescue him—
But it’s neither revelation nor apocalypse that comes…
Eventually beauty becomes only a memory and all sound vanishes except the wind