May 2018
The word came and went just like Modern art, a Jew invented it we all know—
Dylan continued it, picking up like Christ in the street, drunk again as usual stumbling along performing miracles—
We all love Nijinsky, we all love ******, the fat rich ones who pay well for *******—
No good ***** takes it in the *** anymore—
Except on the Bowery for medical reasons—
It’s energy came out of Russian ballet—
Russia turned on Bob Fosse, Balanchine, Musorgsky, Naguchi, Graham, Duncan & Robeson—
These were the people that invented Modern art, the little ****** are multimillionaires, without an inheritance, raised on rat poison—
The lovely little clown dancing around in the street—
Half animal, half-nature, a stone age primitive, admit it—
They still do that kind of stuff in the mountains of Afghanistan—
We want to do it too, at the Limelight, at Studio 54, at Stonewall in the streets,
Dancing with the cops while English ****** look on—
We know what we are doing, have studied it for years on the Lower East Side and Broadway in fluent Yiddish—
Emily Dickinson sitting in a box beside Abraham Lincoln, a black girl with a mouthful of ***, a mother standing on the stairs ushering the high-school footballer upstairs—
All these things can happen in America—
Have happened, a girl goes home with her schoolteacher, life goes on and they are married—
Name the year, the century—
This is America where the corn gets laid—
This is the Jubilee year of the Jews—
They have owned the place for centuries, Chinese Jews from underground have built castles filled with cats in places we have never been, Chinese to the core, like Walt Whitman and Walt Disney and Kerouac—
The children of a lesser god, beautiful in their Adamic innocence—
We thrive because they live, the rotten white maggots seething underground at the subway to the path out of town—
The rabbits of Caligula’s oceanic army against Atlantis, falling in the toilet, dry as rotten wood, in Afghanistan a princess lay dead ****** in the desert—
I once had Technicolor dreams, but now they just repeat—
I live in the hollow of my fantasies; the girl named Shirley that lives next door to the railway station comes to see me at night—
The moon sharp as a knife, pointed as a needle—
She spit in her palm and gave me a *******—
She spit on the floor and I said it was lovely—
She spit at the moon and it came back in her eye—
She saw Infinity in that moment, a thousand times, as she’s done a thousand times before—
The world came and went, just like Modern Art—
Picasso and Einstein taking up where twisted Freud and crazy Nietzsche left off—
Where ****** went back to and where Sarah Palin wants to go—
Barefoot on her knees with mouth open,
Tongue out waiting to be filled with the Holy Spirit—
I find it easy to imagine what the first moderns must have felt like watching the Belle Epoch drown itself in blood on the battlefields of the First World war—
Pound and Eliot went mad and got lost—
Picasso got lost in his cubicle, Einstein in his equations—
Hemingway got lost and found himself when Fitzgerald bought drinks for everyone—
Eliot taking Holy Communion, Pound preaching fascism, Hemingway living and dying From a shotgun blast to the head years later—
Lorca taking it in the *** in the sultry Spanish afternoon,
Gunshots ringing out all around him—
Did Hart Crane write difficult poetry because he was a ****—?
Pound and Eliot wrote difficult poetry too,
John Cage writing difficult music that Merce Cunningham could dance too—
Victoria’s Secret supermodels replacing Gibson Girls
In the imaginations of dead soldiers—
Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth surviving in the memories of whoever cares to recall their black and white beauty—
I prefer Bettie Page to any Russian spy you can name—
There are thousands to choose from on the streets of Moscow
But Sarah Plain knows the ones that are good to go—
She can see them from her bedroom window
Turning tricks on the freezing corners—
But what I want to know is which ones are into *******
And which only want to watch old American musicals
Because I know that Russian girls don’t understand Japanese Manga
The way Korean girls do—
Tattoos covering their albino bodies—
Performing in staged gang bangs with the sons of Oligarchs
And switchblade carrying gang members for worthless rubles—
I think I know how the Modernists felt when they saw the decrepit Victorian society go down under machine gun fire and mustard gas—
****** emerged from the ashes and Stalin rose from the streets
Of Georgia to make a name for himself in Lenin’s pocket
And Trotsky died of a headache between *******
Between Freda Kahlo’s surreal broken legs the way all Communists and Jews do—
Yes, I said that all Jews die between Freda Kahlo’s thighs,
The red **** splattering their inert faces with her purple ******—
And from this reflection in the broken mirror of America
Jackson Pollack learned to paint in Benton’s shadow and Diego Rivera ****** Rockefeller’s **** in the high-rise elevator as it went down at rocket speed—
Kennedy met Marilyn Monroe on the moon
As the Soviets flew by with robot precision
But it was too late for Bettie Page to open her legs
For the hustler to step inside and find Jesus—
Barefoot on her knees,
She opened her mouth to receive the communion wafer from the black priest—
The Soviets didn’t believe in Jesus,
But then who can deny that the man walked the earth barefoot and celibate—
Did Jesus Christ ******* on the hills overlooking *****
With the disciples looking on as if he were showing them how—
Did Mary Magdalene offer to do them all up on that hill as Satan looked on with envy—?
Dylan continued it, picking up like Christ in the street, drunk again as usual stumbling along performing miracles—
We all love Nijinsky, we all love ******, the fat rich ones who pay well for *******—
No good ***** takes it in the *** anymore—
Except on the Bowery for medical reasons—
It’s energy came out of Russian ballet—
Russia turned on Bob Fosse, Balanchine, Musorgsky, Naguchi, Graham, Duncan & Robeson—
These were the people that invented Modern art, the little ****** are multimillionaires, without an inheritance, raised on rat poison—
The lovely little clown dancing around in the street—
Half animal, half-nature, a stone age primitive, admit it—
They still do that kind of stuff in the mountains of Afghanistan—
We want to do it too, at the Limelight, at Studio 54, at Stonewall in the streets,
Dancing with the cops while English ****** look on—
We know what we are doing, have studied it for years on the Lower East Side and Broadway in fluent Yiddish—
Emily Dickinson sitting in a box beside Abraham Lincoln, a black girl with a mouthful of ***, a mother standing on the stairs ushering the high-school footballer upstairs—
All these things can happen in America—
Have happened, a girl goes home with her schoolteacher, life goes on and they are married—
Name the year, the century—
This is America where the corn gets laid—
This is the Jubilee year of the Jews—
They have owned the place for centuries, Chinese Jews from underground have built castles filled with cats in places we have never been, Chinese to the core, like Walt Whitman and Walt Disney and Kerouac—
The children of a lesser god, beautiful in their Adamic innocence—
We thrive because they live, the rotten white maggots seething underground at the subway to the path out of town—
The rabbits of Caligula’s oceanic army against Atlantis, falling in the toilet, dry as rotten wood, in Afghanistan a princess lay dead ****** in the desert—
I once had Technicolor dreams, but now they just repeat—
I live in the hollow of my fantasies; the girl named Shirley that lives next door to the railway station comes to see me at night—
The moon sharp as a knife, pointed as a needle—
She spit in her palm and gave me a *******—
She spit on the floor and I said it was lovely—
She spit at the moon and it came back in her eye—
She saw Infinity in that moment, a thousand times, as she’s done a thousand times before—
The world came and went, just like Modern Art—
Picasso and Einstein taking up where twisted Freud and crazy Nietzsche left off—
Where ****** went back to and where Sarah Palin wants to go—
Barefoot on her knees with mouth open,
Tongue out waiting to be filled with the Holy Spirit—
I find it easy to imagine what the first moderns must have felt like watching the Belle Epoch drown itself in blood on the battlefields of the First World war—
Pound and Eliot went mad and got lost—
Picasso got lost in his cubicle, Einstein in his equations—
Hemingway got lost and found himself when Fitzgerald bought drinks for everyone—
Eliot taking Holy Communion, Pound preaching fascism, Hemingway living and dying From a shotgun blast to the head years later—
Lorca taking it in the *** in the sultry Spanish afternoon,
Gunshots ringing out all around him—
Did Hart Crane write difficult poetry because he was a ****—?
Pound and Eliot wrote difficult poetry too,
John Cage writing difficult music that Merce Cunningham could dance too—
Victoria’s Secret supermodels replacing Gibson Girls
In the imaginations of dead soldiers—
Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth surviving in the memories of whoever cares to recall their black and white beauty—
I prefer Bettie Page to any Russian spy you can name—
There are thousands to choose from on the streets of Moscow
But Sarah Plain knows the ones that are good to go—
She can see them from her bedroom window
Turning tricks on the freezing corners—
But what I want to know is which ones are into *******
And which only want to watch old American musicals
Because I know that Russian girls don’t understand Japanese Manga
The way Korean girls do—
Tattoos covering their albino bodies—
Performing in staged gang bangs with the sons of Oligarchs
And switchblade carrying gang members for worthless rubles—
I think I know how the Modernists felt when they saw the decrepit Victorian society go down under machine gun fire and mustard gas—
****** emerged from the ashes and Stalin rose from the streets
Of Georgia to make a name for himself in Lenin’s pocket
And Trotsky died of a headache between *******
Between Freda Kahlo’s surreal broken legs the way all Communists and Jews do—
Yes, I said that all Jews die between Freda Kahlo’s thighs,
The red **** splattering their inert faces with her purple ******—
And from this reflection in the broken mirror of America
Jackson Pollack learned to paint in Benton’s shadow and Diego Rivera ****** Rockefeller’s **** in the high-rise elevator as it went down at rocket speed—
Kennedy met Marilyn Monroe on the moon
As the Soviets flew by with robot precision
But it was too late for Bettie Page to open her legs
For the hustler to step inside and find Jesus—
Barefoot on her knees,
She opened her mouth to receive the communion wafer from the black priest—
The Soviets didn’t believe in Jesus,
But then who can deny that the man walked the earth barefoot and celibate—
Did Jesus Christ ******* on the hills overlooking *****
With the disciples looking on as if he were showing them how—
Did Mary Magdalene offer to do them all up on that hill as Satan looked on with envy—?
