by Alice Notley
dream smoke
(my dream the big earth)
On the green a white boy goes to not
Forget Released by night (which is not to imply
Clarity The logic is not The Boats and O, I am not alone
LXXIII
Dear Ron: Keats was a baiter of bears etc.
Tenseness, but strength, outward And the green
flinging currents into pouring streams The “Jeunes filles”
so rare Today I think about all those radio waves
a slow going down of the Morning Land
the great Speckle bird at last extinct (a reference
to Herman Melville) at heart we are infinite, we are
ethereal, we are weird! Each tree stands alone in stillness.
Your head spins when the old bull rushes (Back in the city
He was not a midget, and preferred to be known as a stuntman)
Gosh, I gulp to be here in my skin! What thwarts this fear
I love Everything turns into writing (and who falters)
I LIKE TO BEAT PEOPLE UP!!! (absence of principles, passion
) love. White boats Green banks Grace to be born and live
LXXIV
The academy
of the future
is opening its doors
JOHN ASHBERY
The academy of the future is opening its doors
my dream a crumpled horn
Under the blue sky the big earth is floating into “The Poems.”
“A fruitful vista, this, our South,” laughs Andrew to his Pa.
But his rough woe slithers o’er the land.
Ford Madox Ford is not a dream. The farm
was the family farm. On the real farm
I understood “The Poems.”
Red-faced and romping in the wind, I, too,
am reading the technical journals. The only travelled sea
that I still dream of
is a cold black pond, where once
on a fragrant evening fraught with sadness
I launched a boat frail as a butterfly
LXXV
Seurat and Juan Gris combine this season
to outline Central Park in geometric
trillion pointed bright red-brown and green-gold
blocks of blooming winter. Trees stand stark-naked
guarding bridal paths like Bowery
Santa Clauses keeping Christmas safe each city block.
Thus I, red faced and romping in the wind
Whirl thru mad Manhattan dressed in books
looking for today with tail-pin. I
never place it right, never win. It
doesn’t matter, though. The cooling wind keeps blowing
and my poems are coming.
Except at night. Then
I walk out in the bleak village and look for you
LXXVI
I wake up back aching from soft bed Pat
gone to work Ron to class (I
never heard a sound) it’s my birthday. I put on
birthday pants birthday shirt go to ADAM’S buy a
pepsi for breakfast come home drink it take a pill
I’m high. I do three Greek lessons
to make up for cutting class. I read birthday book
(from Joe) on Juan Gris real name José Vittoriano
Gonzáles stop in the middle read all
my poems gloat a little over new ballad quickly skip old
sonnets imitations of Shakespeare. Back to books. I read
poems by Auden Spenser Pound Stevens and Frank O’Hara.
I hate books.
I wonder if Jan or Helen or Babe
ever think about me. I wonder if Dave Bearden still
dislikes me. I wonder if people talk about me
secretly. I wonder if I’m too old. I wonder if I’m fooling
myself about pills. I wonder what’s in the icebox. I wonder
if Ron or Pat bought any toilet paper this morning
LXXVII
“DEAR CHRIS
it is 3:17 a.m. in New York city, yes, it is
1962, it is the year of parrot fever. In
Brandenburg, and by the granite gates, the
old come-all-ye’s streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,
the season of delight. I am writing to you to say that
I have gone mad. Now I am sowing the seeds which shall,
when ripe, master the day, and
portion out the night. Be watching for me when blood
flows down the streets. Pineapples are a sign
that I am coming. My darling, it is nearly time. Dress
the snowman in the Easter sonnet we made for him
when scissors were in style. For now, goodbye, and
all my love,
The Snake.”
LXXVIII
Too many fucking mosquitoes under the blazing sun
out in the stinking alley behind my desk! too many
lovely delicious behinds fertilizing the park! the logic
of childhood is not genuine it shines forth
so rare
Dear Ron: Keats was a baiter of bears who died
of lust! Today I think about all those radio waves
The academy of my dreams is opening its doors
Seurat and Juan Gris combine this season
Except at night!
Then I walk out in the bleak village
in my dreams, for they are present! I wake up
aching from soft bed Back to books. It is 3:17 a.m. in
New York city
The Pure No Nonsense: and all day “Perceval! Perceval!”
LXXX
How strange to be gone in a minute
Bearden is dead Gallup is dead Margie is dead
Patsy awakens in heat and ready to squabble
Dear Chris, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
I rage in a blue shirt, at a brown desk, in
A bright room, sustained by the darkness outside and
A cast-off emotion. A hard core is “formed”
That the angels have supereminent wisdom is shown
“He Shot Me” was once my favorite poem
Speckled marble makes my eyes ache as I rest on
The only major statement in New York city Louis Sullivan
is dead whose grief I would most assuage
“He Shot Me” is still my favorite poem, and
“I Don’t See Any Anchor Tied To Your Ass”
LXXXI
Musick strides through these poems
just as it strides through me! The red block
Dream of Hans Hofmann keeps going away and
Coming back to me. He is not “The Poems.”
(my dream a drink with Lonnie Johnson we
discuss the code of the west)
How strange to be gone
in a minute!
too soon for the broken arm. Ripeness begins corrupting every
tree
Each strong morning in air we get our feet wet
(my dream
a crumpled horn) it hurts. Huddie Ledbetter is dead
whose griefs I would most assuage Sing I must And
with Musick I must rage
Against those whose griefs I would most assuage
(my dream
“DEAR CHRIS, hello. It is 3:17 a.m.
LXXXII
my dream a drink with Lonnie Johnson we discuss the code
of the west
The red block dream of Hans Hofmann keeps going away and
coming back to me
my dream a crumpled horn
my dream DEAR CHRIS, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
The academy of my dreams is opening its doors
Ford Madox Ford is not a dream.
The only travelled sea that I still dream of is a cold black pond
where once on a fragrant evening fraught with sadness
I launched a boat frail as a butterfly
Southwest los
t doubloons rest, no comforts drift on dream smoke
down the sooted fog ravine
My dream a drink with Richard Gallup we discuss the code of
the west
my dream a drink with Henry Miller
“The Poems” is not a dream.
Vast orange dreams wed to wakefulness: icy girls finger thighs
bellies apples in my dream the big gunfire sequence for
the Jay Kenneth Koch movie, Phooey!
My dream a drink with Ira Hayes we discuss the code of the west
LXXXIII
Woman is singing the song and summer
Only to others, meaning poems. Because everything
Sorry about West Point. But where else was one to go,
Southwest lost doubloons rest, no comforts drift on dream smoke
Against whose griefs I would most assuage
(A cast-off emotion) A hard core is “formed.”
Musick strides through these poems just as it strides thru me
my dream a drink with Lonnie Johnson we discuss the code of
the west
After Ticonderoga. Beware of Benjamin Franklin, he is
totally lacking in grace
What else. Because he tended to think of truth as “The King’s
Birthday List”
This is called “Black Nausea” by seers.
My dream DEAR CHRIS hello. It is 3:17 a.m.
Your name is now a household name, as is mine. And in any case,
although I failed, now we need never be rivals
LXXXIV
Dear Ron: hello. Your name is now a household name,
As is mine. We, too, suffer black spells. This is called
“Black Nausea” by seers, only to others, meaning poems.
In every way now we are equal. Except one.
Ford Madox Ford is not a dream. (my dream a drink
with Henry Miller) we discuss the code of the west.
He is not “The Poems.”
“He Shot Me” was once my favorite
Cast-off emotion. Now I rage in a blue shirt at a brown desk
In a bright room. In Tulsa Chris has said goodbye to Bernie.
I never beat people up. The academy of my dreams
is opening its doors / a fat black woman is singing a song and
Summer is the subject matter. Next to her his nose couldn’t grow
Even if it does choke you up, and these marvelous tears
keep appearing
LXXXV
They basted his caption on top of the fat sheriff, “The Pig.”
Cowboys and banging on my sorrow with books
No lady dream around in any bad exposure
The dust fissure drains the gay dance
Joyful ants nest in the roof of my tree
absence of passion, principles, love. She murmurs
is not genuine. it shines forth from the faces
And each sleeping son is broke-backed and dumb.
Davy Crockett was nothing like Jesse James
The most elegant present I could get!
But blood is still blood and tall as a mountain blood
Go to the sea, the lake, the tree
dazzling slim and badly loved
You are asleep. A lovely light is singing to itself
LXXXVII
Beware of Benjamin Franklin, he is totally lacking in grace
This is called “Black Nausea” by seers. (They basted his caption
on top of the fat sheriff )
These sonnets are a homage to
King Ubu.
Fasten your crimson garter around his servile heart
With which he pours forth interminably
The poem of these states scanning the long selves of
the shore and “gift gift”
Great black rat packs were running amuck amidst the murk
of these states Outside my room
These sonnets are a homage to myself
absence of passion, principles, love
The most elegant present I could get! (This is called
“Black Nausea” by seers)
LXXXVIII
A Final Sonnet
FOR CHRIS
How strange to be gone in a minute! A man
Signs a shovel and so he digs Everything
Turns into writing a name for a day
Someone
is having a birthday and someone is getting
married and someone is telling a joke my dream
a white tree I dream of the code of the west
But this rough magic I here abjure and
When I have required some heavenly music which even now
I do to work mine end upon their senses
That this aery charm is for I’ll break
My staff bury it certain fathoms in the earth
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I’ll drown my book.
It is 5:15 a.m. Dear Chris, hello.
Great Stories of the Chair
THE SECRET LIFE OF FORD MADOX FORD
1.
STOP STOP SIX
Livid sweet undies drawl
Elevate
So do we squeal sporty ritual
Once a great kiss sin tells
Dance is night
Later away training melodies dances rues
Latent traveler on light
Lays tense all day silky past far deportment
Says your songs tombs surely rail
You arrest my faculties, you person knees descend
On her part
Like rain occurs missing the whole point so he tired
She would say her little ditty of soul yes
She would say that her circuitous panties descend their
first voyage
Her rear less a dress
This I can’t defeat This stone slays me
I go and do that to her
Her lap opens kisses its tune foils this hurt
Dance of energy
They did bounce her
Her rule was grand it twists like a boulevard
2.
REELING MIDNIGHT
Impasses come, dear beasts
Who require these looney airs so long gone from you all
O all gone to one surly, rude, humiliated
Let’s shovel out a song and dance all knew it
Let’s mosey past them fondled brutes
Shove a dream of it up our regular day devourings
I’ll fondle you on home and hang a kiss on yours
Shall we raise our dead hams
(Her tranquil nose is a noble dancing vine)
Don’t hurt it
Don’t hit it either
Saying what’s so damn sweet
I am on trains they’re all choo-choos
Ack! The Vampire! Some debut!
Lower your dress dammit!
In this tent I’ll untrack or take down some undies
Anguish I’ll sink thru key naps a defense
To be learned one essential day
Like seals I’m indifferent
Eat a potato she said you sober All-American
3.
FAUNA TIME
Liquor troops in deshabillé from blondes a lonely song
Laming a lean m’sieu like a vessel
This man hates his aunt so he licks her feet
Laughing at her brilliant comas of goo
When addict comforts real
One sunk leper’s more real
Lesions are early they fume on her
In her beastly sleep
Some Plague! Heavens! plagues offer
Loathsome murder kill her for me
Says a weak hero completely wrong his meat leaping around
Liquor is her price when she sashays she gouged me a long
time with fins
Like in the movies
One man lassoed her leg’s inner lotus
Laughing at the dumb blue aches so
thick in her metal disc passage
Slipping her a harangue
She really has some rashes!
And her cheek hays me off!
Gruesome rash ate such sweet arms and legs;
Who gashed her liver?
Leprosy ate her mouth turning into her news
4.
ON HIS OWN
I’m not saying
She’s a creep
A wreck
Loving you phew hooray its fini
The reef ’s an injun bum
Lewd
Keep on O playful
One cent exploding cigar
Count the ends toot the lonely ear
Open the door let me in
The orbs say no
Lets sashay up the scene
And strangle the beans
A sick kid passed on a prairie new meat
The sore oozes vomit up in the ear shut the drum
Shut the earache
Mah mumbles mope an’ dumplin
Unless she tells me “ ’s too dumb”
The jello ouch I love may shoot all the martinis
My main ruse is in the mope
When the pill before we bleat lets us glow
The song blurs soda pop yea boo fah!
Uncle Nakee’s dead again
We mash and detash geese and their mothers
Untie the russkies nookies from their loins
Go boot them in the lung my turn
Sell out the taint Oologah the stinky-poo undies my cookie
ain’t on time
Tear down your undies let me see some lunch
5.
THE DANCE OF THE BROKEN BOMB
It’s a cute tune possibly by Camus
The gentle Brigadoon stands here
He sends his years to her
To pass the two birds ta-ta you pass them
To be complete just kiss him and you swish through the air
six seconds ago
To attempt your bra must come off poor Marie
Never “poor”
Enjoy each other
You’ll never walk alone you’ll pee indoors
I peed Saturday
You’re the best of them all men are such beasts they want you
He’ll caress it from time to time
The best one is in the parlor you sew all night poor neighbor
