Michael McClureO leão rebelde da poesia norte-americana

por Rodrigo Garcia Lopes

Uma das principais figuras do movimento Beat — fenômeno literário e contracultural que agitou o cenário norte-americano nos anos 50 e 60 mas que continua em alta por lá — o poeta, dramaturgo e ensaísta Michael McClure, cuja obra permanece inédita no Brasil, é tido por críticos importantes como o mais respeitável porta-voz de sua geração.Seja através de peças polêmicas como The Beard, ou em performances e poemas que celebravam a natureza e novas formas de percepção, a liberdade sexual e a expansão da consciência, seja atacando a farsa do "sonho americano" e as convenções da poesia "poeticamente correta" da época, ele foi uma espécie de catalizador e agitador cultural do ambiente da chamada Renascença Cultural de San Francisco, servindo de ponte entre músicos, poetas e pintores. Como disse o ator Dennis Hopper, "sem a presença de McClure, o rugir dos anos 60 teria sido um miado". Recuperando uma tradição libertária da poesia norte-americana, (Whitman, Thoreau), mas atento às experimentações e incorporando a filosofia e a cultura pop em sua poesia, McClure e seus parceiros conseguiram reacender nos jovens da época o interesse pela poesia e pela ação, influenciando comportamentos e preparando o terreno para os turbulentos e loucos anos 60.Segundo a lenda, McClure serviu de inspiração para seu amigo de noitadas Jim Morrison, que via no poeta mais velho um modelo para a sua interferência como poeta pop-xamânico, tendo McClure apresentado o vocalista do Doors à obra de Blake e Artaud. McClure também excursionou com Bob Dylan, montou uma banda de rock com um "Hell Angels" e deixou sua marca na música pop como o autor de um dos maiores sucessos de Janis Joplin, "Mercedes Benz".Entrevista

Ainda hoje você é visto como um poeta "beat"? Como isso aconteceu?

Michael McClure — Minha estréia como poeta se deu na primeira vez que os beats se reuniram aqui em San Francisco para uma leitura na Six Gallery, em 1955. Allen Ginsberg estava lá, foi quando ele leu Uivo pela primeira vez. Gary Snyder, Phillip Whalen e eu lemos nossos poemas. O poeta Kenneth Rexroth era o mestre de cerimônias. Foi a primeira vez que encontrei Kerouac, mas ele não leu. Pra mim é difícil definir a palavra "beat" porque ela carrega várias noções que são diferentes para cada um. Para alguns, como a mídia, os beats geralmente eram associados com uns caras desarrumados e malucos, de sandália e tocando bongô. Para nós, a palavra estava associada a um interesse comum pela natureza, pela ecologia, pela exploração da mente, por um aprofundamento da experiência, o que é uma tradição antiga, se você lembrar de um Thoreau. Por outro lado, o jazz, o blues e o bebop nos deram a certeza de que a poesia também tinha que se manifestar através da música, da pulsação. Houve um aguçamento da importância da cultura negra. A maioria das letras de música, nessa época, eram muito pobres. Acho que a poesia beat foi importante também por essa vontade de falar de outras coisas, de se manifestar em relação à liberdade individual, ou contra a guerra, contra a pobreza espiritual. Vários músicos, como o próprio Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan e os Beatles, olharam para nossa poesia para dar um sentido e uma profundidade maior às suas letras. Eles perceberam que não tinham que escrever música de chiclete ou de desilusão amorosa, que podiam escrever sobre o que estava realmente acontecendo.

Quais eram suas referências literárias quando você começou a escrever?

McClure — Comecei a escrever influenciado pelo verso livre, pelo imagismo de Williams, por Pound, e.e.cummings. Mas antes eu havia experimentado muito com formas tradicionais como a balada e o soneto. A certa altura, que percebi que tanto o verso livre quanto o tradicional estava restringindo minha liberdade criativa. Eu acreditava que a consciência poética era mais

física, fisiológica, atlética. Que ela se movia, dançava. Então percebi que essa consciência era parte do corpo fisiológico e não separada do resto da natureza.

A poesia que você faz já foi várias vezes chamadas de "poesia-ação", com referência à "pintura-ação", de Jackson Pollock. Você também vê esse paralelo?

McClure — Sim, mas eu preferiria chamar de poesia gestual. Seria a manifestação de um mesmo impulso que vejo em Jack Kerouac, Thelonious Monk, Bud Powell, Charlie Parker. Todos estavam envolvidos na construção de uma autobiografia do espírito. Todos eles queriam, através de sua arte, manifestar os níveis mais profundos da imaginação, e isso é uma atitude universal.

Você sempre fala de seus poemas como se eles fossem extensões do seu corpo, mais do que um objeto isolado, com um sentido em si mesmo.

McClure — Tudo o que faço se torna uma extensão minha, e isso também ocorre no expressionismo abstrato na pintura, no jazz, ou mesmo em Artaud. Pra mim, métrica, técnica, tudo isso é algo interior que se manifesta de um modo exterior. Não é algo preconcebido e sim imediato. Sempre gostei de explorar a "fisicalidade" do pensamento, procurando uma certa qualidade atlética física e verbal e um vigor de expressão onde a poesia pudesse ser atingida. Mas essa poesia de que falo não é tão nova assim: é uma poesia da experiência, que investiga a consciência, os sentidos.

No prefácio de seu livro "Céus Jaguar" você diz que a poesia é um princípio muscular. Como é isso?

McClure — Sempre tive esse modo de encarar a poesia. Para mim, a experiência poética não é um processo puramente intelectual e sim um processo que vem do corpo, e onde o intelecto é só uma parte importante. Acho que a poesia ocidental sempre olhou mais para a mente e não tanto para o corpo. Mesmo quando sua estrutura é investigada, quase nunca essa estrutura é vista como uma extensão da fisiologia. Para mim, a poesia é um processo natural, como ocorre com os animais: é natural para um gatinho começar a procurar ratos e estocá-los, ou um filhote de águia começar a exercitar as asas ao lado do ninho, de modo que eventualmente ele aprenda a voar.

Assim como era natural para um músico como Monk ou um novelista como Kerouac sentar-se e tocar ou escrever frases, algo totalmente espontâneo e muscular no sentido de que vem do corpo.

Você se opõe a uma poesia intelectual, apenas pensada mas não vivida?

McClure — Não me oponho totalmente ao intelecto. Mesmo porque, não vejo separação entre corpo e mente, e a poesia ocidental sempre se preocupou em olhar mais para a mente. Eu me sinto desconfortável com a tradição modernista européia ou mesmo a norte-americana: acho que quando a arte ou a imaginação estão dirigidos mais ao universo do discurso do que ao universo das percepções, das sensações, do sentimento, isso acaba desenvolvendo um tipo de metafísica que se afasta da experiência humana e se torna um produto, uma parte da grande máquina da educação ou da civilização. Nesses casos, a poesia pode ser um veneno, pois ela é reduzida enquanto experiência, torna-se esterelizada. Ela se torna um veneno, mais do que uma arte que conduz à uma libertação, ou ao cultivo da liberdade da imaginação, do prazer, ao aprofundamento da consciência. A poeta Diane di Prima escreveu uma vez que uma vez que "a única guerra que nos importa é a guerra contra a imaginação".

Como você vê a juventude norte-americana hoje?

McClure — Acho que há muitos jovens tentando fazer o que acham certo, mas em grande parte eles são vulneráveis, sensíveis, estão um pouco perdidos. Acho que lhes falta a capacidade intelectual de promover um programa de ações.

Você acha que a TV tem contribuído para uma espécie de lavagem cerebral?

McClure — Não sou tão radical a ponto de achar que a TV esteja fazendo uma lavagem cerebral. Acho que é até pior. O problema é que eles estão sendo tratados como computadores, e estão se transformando em seres unidimensionais, como diria Marcuse. A mídia está lhe oferecendo o software. Ela lhes dá, literalmente, uma linguagem, que é a linguagem com a qual eles pensam, com a qual eles nomeiam o mundo. Eles estão sendo treinados a obedecer impulsos. As crianças estão sendo expostas à TV cada vez mais cedo, e com isso os jovens estão aprendendo a manipular este software mas estão pensando que aquilo reflete sua vida e sua experiência interior. É um mecanismo mais sutil e funciona bem melhor que lavagem cerebral.

Que conselho você daria aos poetas jovens hoje?

McClure — Bem, a função dos poetas é tomar conta da poesia. Mas isso não é preciso. A poesia sabe tomar conta de si mesma..

from

GHOST TANTRAS

by

Michael McClure

  This selection of Ghost Tantras was made by Michael McClure.

1

GOOOOOOR! GOOOOOOOOOO! GOOOOOOOOOR!

GRAHHH! GRAHH! GRAHH! Grah gooooor! Ghahh! Graaarr! Greeeeer! Grayowhr!

Greeeeee GRAHHRR! RAHHR! GRAGHHRR! RAHR!

RAHRIRAHHR! GRAHHHR! GAHHR! HRAHR! BE NOT SUGAR BUT BE LOVE

looking for sugar! GAHHHHHHHH!

ROWRR! GROOOOOOOOOOH!

 

 

7

GHHHROOOOOO GAHROOOOOOO EEEKA CAR, cargroooooooo longkarr GRAHHH!

Cowmrooooooose blooooo mewie-weeeep. VOOOOOOOOOOOO?

Shgrarrr? Yagabb krahr yellow vipt mwooo? Swooooooooooooo lub byeeee bwack meee!

MAKE LOVE SOUNDS. HERE SMELL.

Grahh pallid! Gr-aaah love nowhr bwooooooooo krahh noooo-boooooose!

Saba-groooooh stahr zaboth mwoooo kakra graaaah grahh grrrrrrrr

mweeeeeeeee melt.

 

 

8

Awaken grahhh nameless brahh beauty brahhh sense: SENZOR BRAHH-GRAHH GROOOOOWEE! Hn-ruh! Rahhr. Gragma huhrr vreeeemagtarb.

OH! Ohhhh ooooic more superb than Anita Ekberg.

YOU!

Proud cones of Grecian breasts and thighs and belly. Smile in the darkness.

Groooooooooooooooh ! Goooooooor mowkarg-lang voooooo mahh tah. Rose and lily lovely cheek mate;

GROOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOIE

Gooooooooor. HRAHH!

 

 

20

OOOOH. HOHH! OOH. HRAHH ME GO TORR back bye ne bee. Hrr. Gruh grahh neegoww

hrahh bweeze mahtote bweee hrahhr, hrahhrr,

so sad and different love I weep here for you noh I cool m'brahh me where you noh city is a treasure

or a woman spryahh whann thoo sa ieee slaff dim. NOH! FORBIDDEN FALSEHOOD!

SAD UNTRUTH! TRULY I DO NOT CRY NOR FEEL - but so far inside is a whirlwind I ride.

OH! OH! OH!

WHY AM I HERE? LEEOOOOO ME WEEP - TRULY ...

No mantra, no tantra, no poetry ... NOH TEEERZ.

                              (Mex City - eve)

 

 

39

MARILYN MONROE, TODAY THOU HAST PASSED THE DARK BARRIER

diving in a swirl of golden hair.

I hope you have entered a sacred paradise for full wan-n bodies, full lips, full hips, and laughing eyes! AHH GHROOOR. ROOOHR. NOH THAT OHH!

OOOH ... Farewell perfect mammal.

Fare thee well from thy silken couch and dark day! AHH GRHHROOOR! AHH ROOOOH. GARR nah ooth eeze farewell. Moor droon fahra rahoor

rahoor, rahoor. Thee ahh-oh oh thahrr noh grooh rahhr.

                                        (August 6, 1962)  

 

49

SILENCE THE EYES! BECALM THE SENSES! Drive drooor from the frcsh repugnance, thou whole,

thou feeling creature. Live not for others but affect thyself from thy enhanced interior - believing what thou carry.

Thy trillionic multitude of grahh, vhooshes, and silences. Oh you are heavier and dimmer than you know

and more solid and full of pleasure. Grahhr! Grahhhr! Ghrahhhrrr! Ghrahhr. Grahhrrr. Grahhr-grahhhhrr! Grahhr. Gahrahhrr Ghrahhhrrrr. Gharrrrr. Ghrahhr! Ghrarrrrr. Ghanrrr. Ghrahhhrr.

Ghrahhrr. Ghrahr. Grahhr. Grahharrr. Grahhrr. Grahhhhr. Grahhhr. Gahar. Ghmhhr. Grahhr. Grahhr.

Ghrahhr. Grahhhr. Grahhr. Gratharrr! Grahhr. Ghrahrr. Ghraaaaaaahrr. Grhar. Ghhrarrr! Grahhrr.

Ghrahrr. Gharr! Ghrahhhhr. Grahhrr. Ghraherrr.

 

 

50

Gahr thy rooh gaharr eeem thah noolt eeeze be me aiee grahorr im lowvell thee thy lips and hair

are stunning field byorr ayohh mah ahn teerz. Ghroo ahn the green-blahk trees

are tall and brooding in the dark gray-pink wet mist of night. All is flashes of silver

upon damp black by scroolt in theer. THEE, THEE, THEE

mahk flooors pore reeer, thah noose eem rakd. GAHARRRRR GAYRR RRAH MEEN LOOVEEE.

And all physicality is poesy to demanding flesh.

____________________________

Ring tailed cat. Close Arcturus.

Heavenly visions of gentle rats with pink noses.

 

 

51

I LOVE TO THINK OF THE RED PURPLE ROSE IN THE DARKNESS COOLED BY THE NIGHT.

We are served by machines making satins of sounds.

Each blot of sound is a bud or a stahr. Body eats bouquets of the ear's vista.

Gahhhrrr boody eers noze eyes deem thou. NOH. NAH-OHH

hrooor. VOOOR-NAH! GAHROOOOO ME. Nah droooooh seerch. NAH THEE! The machines are too dull when we are lion-poems that move & breathe.

WHAN WE GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOR hann dree myketoth sharoo sreee thah noh deeeeeemed ez.

Whan eecethoooze hrohh.

 

 

52

WHAHN WE NROH HEEER AHN THEE thah thow me. Deep stoch roohr im furnooze meat ahn grahooor een seclanze viola sreee shareeeee.

AH THEE LOVE TOW THOU oor roon dreep hor note ah me myorr. Plahn. Plahn. Thooreeee dooorthone.

Pluhn. Plunh. Thooreeeeeeee nrosh tooo oor tow. Thri thrash hah! Mceebresh mebreth hyaii.

Ooothoon droobresh metheeee. Here down deep-over and above

thy heart's ache! Plahn. Plahn drooooo. Dowr mrethreeeee.

Where the unspoken voice speaks before the teerze dreep. Thy message my be.

 

 

                              (written during Schubert's Amadeus Quartet)  

 

53

THIS IS MY BODY'S WORK. MY MIND IS HE noor thahln ahh deem err. Droor moveth. . . Aeiiiiiii

naieee ayeii hrahh voh dann wheeesh tonn thoor moobesh hoh well drann srii weshtoth moshyboth toureee -

drann thy touress. Rohh hyeee gahRAHHRR sweesly. Wheeyoh ohn ell brezeth porbresh droon. Broon ah labronteth por esh el moobwath-HAH.

GAHRAH POOOR ER ES TOOH AYY THOWNEY. Mah taharoooneii wellstove. Selahh toh nah thoney

wheeer es meesheeress tyeeeth moh eratony - WHAHH DROOHN THE LAKE

reflecting beauties of multitudinous holy sweetlings

tumt harungggggggggggggggggggg

                                        (Amadeus Quartet)  

 

54

The motion of cool air shudders my shoulders with pleasure. The smoke from nostrils makes flame-shaped wings.

The air is soft.

AYE. The air is soft and smooth.

Aye! Aye! ROOHGRAHOOOOOOOOOOR-

DEEEEEP-AYE-GRAH rahagraooor. Grahh. Garrr grahoor hrahhrr

miketoobrometh-por-eshkry. Rahoooor gahhr. Narl opal, nahr sorottbreth. Drooon-dep kamoh pohr ell

and deeper deeper to the feeling being to the risen-acting dream cave

walking & talking. HERE, AYE, HERE.

AYE. AYE. Up-deep. Aye! Thou I thou thoooh.

 

 

55

OHGREEOSH NAHTOOHR GRAHNDU THOHMM byoor krohnee nakgreebresh - bwohh thahlltoom.

Behind I leave thee in my soaring. Roooshoobwooeth gruhn kooolnakturnie.

August. Summer. Air. Rooh ordaineth hrukk grooshameth dahhn oohr eecze nak-tree-ohbreshk. Leaf flocks

in clusters gathering for their flight.

Sheep, rabbits, sharks - awake or dreazning. The seasons are plushy banners of Maya

waving about me where I stand. And I ah oohh I am solid velvet.

VALVOOH DROOOOH HYAH. OHGREEEOSH NAHTOOHR GRAHNDU THOHMM.

 

 

58

THE DARK BLUE SNAKE FLARES UP FROM THE LOINS

and lashes itself upon the mukti'd air writhing the clouds of unspoken speeches and making fragrance of hemlock & copal.

I see the lovers seated in groups upon the hillside; they converse

in heroic whispers ahv ghroar ahnd torreze reading their fates upon the scrom whose bare arms

unroll them for the dimmed but bare and staring eye. - In the garden

we are beyond such nonsense and we smile. OOOH HAH TATHONEY

MEEEEREBB NOH OOHGRIER. Grooohrr manes uncurl from our checks

and we know it. Thah Oh.

 

 

67

((PALE PEARL PINK ON THE WALLS AND OUR DAYDREAMS

projected outward in solid reality. We hear, we touch, we breathe. Partitions rustle

and we do not care among the creakings and thumps nah gayothorrs for we are incarnate joys.

ROGTRAYOMF! ROGTRAYOMF! Each nostril is a booming perfection. The blackened skulls and rusty bolts

are only a background for

meat warmth

that passes to something more. __________________

I like your eyes Liberty! __________________

Steam drips the windows in front of utter darkness that's so deep it's cool and sweet. Forget it.

Take more wings love.))

 

 

68

((ROGREEOSH, FOR I HAVE DREAMED of thee forever. Reeehosh it is

AN INSTANT! Forget, forget, for the Universe is in a state

of triumph. We have arisen with it! We climb with twining figures

to multitudinous heavens that are all here where we're singing. It does not matter,

it does not matter, joyous glorious garhoosh grayhayarhoooosh nargr-owm thayolesh

tathor myobeth where we throw the spot light of our souls . . .

Thy eyed feet and thy scented ribbon's passage among the bloomings!))

 

 

69

((OOOOGREEEOSH-DRATHOR BUTTERFLY BEATS AND PANTS DRATHOOOOR ABOUT

THE GROWING RING OF PANSIES where the earth is dry garhroon nahh dree-

opeth barhoooth nohdresh beethorr noh I oh thah meeerdown emrah gahrsoon.

Oooomreeeoh ahn drahgnooze. Theeeow! Water seeps within the earth

between the roots. The bee faints with bliss of overwork

and curls her leg. Snail hunger fills the air with rasping teeth thrown out from the cave beneath the leaf.

Ooor ahm geahzthow fon kalein. Wah lahg dooohr ohgreeeazsh shtahr.))

 

 

90

NOH RAYOR DOH RAHTREESH. I drew thee up - cleaning the nerve tube - I practised

imaging for an instant that I controlled the Power and felt movement from the 4th

to the 6th flower. I felt thee in full greyness and saw the fluttezings of figures & color.

The carth beneath was a monument on which I spz-awled in monumentality. All was a vast lucidity of rarhrhooleerr

DRAHHSH KRAYRARR NROOOZSH-THREEORT KRAHRR GAHR

GRAHH GAHARR N'ROHH HROHHR GRAHHR AND ALL NOTES OF THE TOYFUL ABSOLUTE.

                               sept. 19                                In deep labor

                               thou memorensorium !                                Each return a joyful surprise

                               without fail!

 

 

93

RAYGRAHAOHRR GRAHH THEESSH NEEORR OH THOU OH MY OHBLEMISH

NAGRAHNTORR EKKGEOSH SWEETNESS IM BLEEEMTHEORRT NAK THOWNY bliss bleese gahrten shayohmok thahntoor

ogreosh-tarr grayhaorr kapituleem noherhorrtosh gahrr grahh eem shayoreth drooogen thow

thy holy eternal nectar honey crystallized and congealed in touch-scent o'er rolling roohrr nak grahh rahhr graghnrr drayneeowthecn graghoooor RAHHR GRAHHHHHHHR BLEEEELZE.

ROH! Thy everest peeping - ahhh sweeeeze!

 

 

96

GRAHH GHARRR GAHROOOH GARR NOOOOO GAHARRR GRAH GARRRRR NOOOOO SOOOOOM

GAHHR HRAH GRAYGHARR-GREEEE GARR HRAHHRR GREEEHARRR NARGARROOOOO

GRRHH thowert narr gahrooooh reeeheeer-grh gahntreeeheeerg grahh garhoorm gah-gragahhr hrahhhrttharr noon-grah!

Nye theeooort greee yah harhh grah hrah hroggith! Raharrr! Reeezooom thowtow; grahh gahhrtheeort gahhr tathoom

n'yeeer gahr grahaayoor gah hagrooor raharr grahh! NYORT-GRAYHAOW! GAH RAHARR

I RENOUNCE THEE THOWW LOVINGLY SWEEZE MEER!

 

 

98

GRAHH HARR GAHHR HRAHH GOOOOOORHH! GARHH GAHHHRRRR! GAHROOOOH, AYE! GAHHR GAHRHOOO-RHEER GRAHAHH! OH thah neert gahhr grahgmn grhh drt gahr gmyhayoar

nyarr grooh hrahh grahrgmn grooor HAHHR! GRAHIEE THOW VAROOM SENTIENT GAHRGRR

JOINER OF TIME, SPACE & GAHREEEOH GAHHR-HOOOM NEORR GAHRRGRAGM HRAHRR.

AY HI MEOH GARGM GRAHHRR GAHOOOOO THEEER GRAHDOON HROHH NYORR!

Gahr ghnnayorhrrr. Grayhoww no ooobleosh. GAHHHHHR!

SEEEZMEOH-SHORNETT GROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH! GAHRRR!

 

 

99

IN TRANQUILITY THY GRAHRR AYOHH ROOHOOERING

GRAHAYAOR GAHARRR GRAHHR GAHHR THEOWSH NARR GAHROOOOOOOOH GAHRR GRAH GAHRRR! GRAYHEEOARR GRAHRGM

THAHRR NEEOWSH DYE YEOR GAHRR grah grooom gahhr nowrt thowtooom obleeomosh. AHH THEEAHH! GAHR GRAH NAYEEROOOO GAHROOOOOM GRHH GARAHHRR OH THY NOOOSHEORRTOMESH GREEEEGRAHARRR OH THOU HERE, HERE, HERE IN MY FLESH

RAISING THE CURTAIN HAIEAYORR-REEEEHORRRR

in tranquility.

                              LOVE                               thy

                              !oh my oohblesh!

AN ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS

BY MICHAEL McCLURE

SELECTED BY THE AUTHOR

This anthology was selected for presentation here in conjunction with the gathering of critical responses to Michael McClure's poetry edited by John Jacob. The base for Jacob's gathering includes essays from a Symposium on McClure, guest edited by Jacob for Karl Young's Margins symposium series in 1975. Essays written since then, including some written specifically for this gathering should give readers multiple views and a well-rounded presentation. The present anthology includes poems from all of McClure's books of poetry, and a passage from his play, The Beard. The poetry section also includes a large group of poems from Ghost Tantras, and some of McClure's essays will appear in conjunction with these poems and the essays on his work.

from Hymn to St. Geryon, 1959

FOR THE DEATH OF 100 WHALES In April, 1954, TIME magazine described seventy-nine bored American G.I.s stationed at a NATO base in Iceland murdering a pod of one hundred killer whales. In a single morning the soldiers, armed with rifles, machine guns, and boats, rounded up and then shot the whales to death.

I read this poem at my first reading, in 1955.

 Hung midsea

Like a boat mid-air The liners boiled their pastures:

The liners of flesh, The Arctic steamers

Brains the size of a teacup Mouths the size of a door

The sleek wolves Mowers and reapers of sea kine.

THE GIANT TADPOLES (Meat their algae)

Lept Like sheep or children.

Shot from the sea's bore.

Turned and twisted (Goya!!)

Flung blood and sperm. Incense.

Gnashed at their tails and brothers Cursed Christ of mammals,

Snapped at the sun, Ran for the Sea's floor.

Goya! Goya! Oh Lawrence

No angels dance those bridges. OH GUN! OH BOW!

There are no churches in the waves, No holiness,

No passages or crossings From the beasts' wet shore.

THE ROBE

Sleepwalkers . . . Ghosts! Voices like bodies coming through the mists of sleep,

we float about each other --

bare feet not touching the floor. Talking in our lovers' voice

NAMING THE OBJECTS OF LOVE

(Inventing new tortures, machines to carry us.

Wonders full blown in our faces. Eyes like sapphires or opals. Aloof as miracles. Hearing

jazz in the air. We are passing --

our shapes like nasturtiums.) Frozen, caught held there

my shoulders won't hold you.

HEROIC ACTS won't free us. Free us. Love.

We are voices. Sleep is with us.

PEYOTE POEM, PART I

     Clear -- the senses bright -- sitting in the black chair -- Rocker --                the white walls reflecting the color of clouds

                    moving over the sun. Intimacies! The rooms      not important -- but like divisions of all space                of all hideousness and beauty. I hear

                     the music of myself and write it down            for no one to read. I pass fantasies as they

                sing to me with Circe-Voices. I visit       among the peoples of myself and know all

                                I need to know.      I KNOW EVERYTHING! I PASS INTO THE ROOM

           there is a golden bed radiating all light      the air is full of silver hangings and sheathes

                               I smile to myself. I know              all there is to know. I see all there

                is to feel. I am friendly with the ache                           in my belly. The answer

                to love is my voice. There is no time!      No answers. The answer to feeling is my feeling.

                The answer to joy is joy without feeling.

                The room is a multicolored cherub      of air and bright colors. The pain in my stomach            is warm and tender. I am smiling. The pain

                is many pointed, without anguish.            Light changes the room from yellows to violet!      The dark brown space behind the door is precious

           intimate, silent and still. The birthplace                 of Brahms. I know

           all that I need to know. There is no hurry.      I read the meanings of scratched walls and cracked ceilings.

           I am separate. I close my eyes in divinity and pain.            I blink in solemnity and unsolemn joy.

                I smile at myself in my movements. Walking                      I step higher in carefulness. I fill

           space with myself. I see the secret and distinct                 patterns of smoke from my mouth            I am without care part of all. Distinct.

     I am separate from gloom and beauty. I see all.

     _______________________________________

                          (SPACIOUSNESS

     And grim intensity -- close within myself. No longer                                     a cloud

           but flesh real as rock. Like Herakles                           of primordial substance and vitality.

           And not even afraid of the thing shorn of glamour                           but accepting.

     The beautiful things are not of ourselves                 but I watch them. Among them.

     __________________________________________

                          And the Indian thing. It is true!            Here in my apartment I think tribal thoughts.)

     ___________________________________________

                          STOMACH!!!      There is no time. I am visited by a man

                who is the god of foxes            there is dirt under the nails of his paw

                          fresh from his den.            We smile at one another in recognition.

           I am free from time. I accept it without triumph

                          -- a fact.

           Closing my eyes there are flashes of light.

     My eyes won't focus but leap. I see that I have three feet.                 I see seven places at once!

           The floor slants -- the room slopes                           things melt

             into each other. Flashes                 of light

           and meldings. I wait      seeing the physical thing pass.

                I am on a mesa of time and space.                           ! STOM-ACHE!

                Writing the music of life                      in words.

                Hearing the round sounds of the guitar                      as colors.

                Feeling the touch of flesh.                 Seeing the loose chaos of words

                on the page.                      (ultimate grace)

           (Sweet Yeats and his ball of hashish.)

     _________________________________

           My belly and I are two individuals                 joined together

                     in life.

     __________________________________

           THIS IS THE POWERFUL KNOWLEDGE                 we smile with it.

     ___________________________________

           At the window I look into the blue-gray                 gloom of dreariness.

     I am warm. Into the dragon of space.            I stare into clouds seeing

                their misty convolutions.

                The whirls of vapor      I will small clouds out of existence.

     They become fish devouring each other.      And change like Dante's holy spirits      becoming an osprey frozen skyhigh

                to challenge me.

from Dark Brown (1961)

OH EASE OH BODY STRAIN OH LOVE OH EASE ME NOT! WOUND-BORE

be real, show organs, show blood, OH let me be as a flower. Let ugliness arise without care

grow side by side with beauty. Oh twist be real to me. Fly smoke! Meat-real, as nerves

TENDON Ion, FLAME, Muscle, not banners but bulks as

we are all "deer" and move as beasts. Stalking in our forest

as these are speech words!

Burn them pure as above they rise from attitude are stultified. Are shit. Burn

what arises from habit. Let custom die. Smash patterns and forms let spirit

free to blasting liberty. Smash the habit shit above! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

 LET PURE BLACK WORDS MOVE FROM THOUGHT BEHIND

 *       *       *

 

((OH BRING OH BLOOD BACK THE COURAGE THE DEEP THE NEGATIVE CHALLENGE

I deny. Love. Deny. Defy oh love. In blackness a forest, oh damp earth. Put forth. Decry! Put down

until a shoot is sent forth matching. The purity the image within. Oh crass and easy polemic

say !I LOVE !

Let me be a torch to myself.)) OH HEART-SICK BURN STRIVE Past the drift-ease

to the depth within making a film of the gene over the surface. Say meat hand, the hand black

in the deed as the strain toward the act. Each strike an ugly huge music. Walking walking huge Love.

All a web from the black gene to the black edge.

(((torture destroy tradition seek what gives damned

pleasure.))) Exult in drugs

draw back to sight, VISION

of purity & liberty, MORALITY IS BEAUTY THE BEAST SPIRIT LIVES FOREVER

!                                                                                                       !

 

 

!

I REST

 

from The New Book/A Book of Torture (1961)

  FOR JACK KEROUAC: THE CHAMBER

IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN UMBER AND CHROME

I, sit feeling the swell of the cloud made about by movement of arm leg and tongue. In reflections of gold

light. Tints and flashes of gold and amber spearing and glinting. Blur glass . . . blue Glass,

black telephone. Matchflame of violet and flesh seen in the clear bright light. It is not night

and night too. In Hell, there are stars outside. And long sounds of cars. Brown shadows on walls

in the light of the room. I sit or stand

wanting the huge reality of touch and love. In the turned room. Remember the longago dream

of stuffed animals ( owl, fox ) in a dark shop. Wanting only the purity of clean colors and new shapes

and feelings. I WOULD CRY FOR THEM USELESSLY

I have ten years life to worship youth Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Jean Harlow

*       *       *

IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I feel the swell of

smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars the brown shadows

on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to dull plane

from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love's face.

The telephone in cataleptic light. Matchflames of blue and red seen in the clear grain.

I see myself -- ourselves in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.

The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall. I am real as you are real whom I speak to.

I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up and see nothing is changed. There is no flash

to my eyes. No change to the room. Vita Nuova--No! The dead, dead, world.

The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture. An agony to be so in pain without release

when love is a word or kiss.

 

*       *       *

 

LA PLUS BLANCHE

JEAN HARLOW, YOU ARE IN BEAUTY ON DARK EARTH WITH WHITE FEET! MICHAEL

slaying the dragon is not more wonderful than you. To air you give magical sleekness. We shall carry you into Space

on our shoulders. You triumph over all with warm legs and a smile of wistful anxiety that's cover for the honesty

spoken by your grace! Inner energy presses out to you in warmness - you return love. Love returned for admiration! Strangeness

is returned for you by desire. How. Where but in the depth of Jean Harlow is such strangeness

made into grace? How many women are more beautiful in shape and apparition! How few can /have/

draw such love to them? For you are the whole creature of love!

Your muscles are love muscles!

Your nerves -- Love nerves!

And your upturned comic eyes!

Sleep dreams of you.

 

*       *       *  

FOR THELONIUS MONK

ALL IS COOL AND BOUNDLESS AS A ROLLING LAMB OF JAZZ, I SEE the shades slipt behind me. Avolekiteshvara! I am blessed and protected. I hear the beauty

of the tossing notes. I am safe! I it does not matter Love, Avolekiteshvara, Kwannon,

love you pale beauty see my twisted head and face grow

thin again. PURSUE THE SLIM SHADES IN AND OUT LOST IN IT ALL

hide you from yourself., choke on my love for you, happy

for an instant. ( All is fire and I fat myself to be a candle. )

( Careful, careful crazy man and burning heart. ) OH! OH! OH! OH! Tired old fear. OH! OH!

 

 

from Little Odes (1969)

ME RAPHAEL

THE POINT OF AGONY IS THE POINT OF AGONY!!! ALL THAT I AM, CONVERGES

IN BLACK RIFFS, IN BLACK RIFFS. I RAISE MY HAND to the dark dark woman. i cry stop!

to the deep repetitions -- and this is the Meat of poesy of the secret lost secret of Writing.

I've said it all in my book of torture and beyond that point the black riff returned in the color of dark brown

to strike finally to that same point that I dripped in my agony -- to make a visible shield

of fleshy chivalry and nobility in my sight of sleek skin! OH OH it is all beautiful

I HAVE DEFINED BEAUTY

I RESENT MY AGONY AND I DESPISE MY SUFFERING SAVE FOR THEIR BEAUTY

and that I have become immortal

AND I RAISE MY DARK EYES AND MY BROWS TO SEE THEM PAINTED ON THE FOREHEAD OF RAPHAEL

____________________________________________________

damn all!!!

damn all!!!

damn all!!!

I HAVE LEARNED EASILY THE STAR OF GLAMOR AND I RETURN TO MANLINESS carrying a black machinegun

  *       *       *

 

HUMMINGBIRD ODE

THE FAR-DARTER IS DEAD IN MY HAND, THE BEAUTIFUL SHABBY COLORS

and the damp spots where the eyes were. Small form that was all spirit, smashed on the plate glass window. The green head and ruby

ruffles. The beautiful shabby colors and the damp spots where the eyes were.

All head and chest and the Eros-spear of the beak. Moving like Cupid

in the fuschias. Hummingbird and spike of desire.

The huge chest and head and the beautiful shabby colors. Tiny legs

thrust back in the last stiff agony.

WHAT'S ON YOUR SIDE OF THE VEIL?? DO YOU DIP YOUR BEAK

in the vast black lily of space? Does the sweetness

of the pain go on forever?

IS THERE COURAGE THERE IN THE NIGHT? WHERE ARE THE LOVES THAT MAKE THE BLOSSOM

of your body? Do they still spin in the air? Your wives

and loves? Are you now more than this meat? Finally

A STAR??

 

from THE BEARD

HARLOW and BILLY THE KID wear small beards of torn tissue paper.

HARLOW'S hair is in her traditional style. She wears a pale blue gown with plumed sleeves.

BILLY THE KID wears shirt, tight pants, and boots.

HARLOW has a purse.

The set contains two chairs and a table covered with furs -- there is an orange light shining on them.

The Beard was acted for the first time on December 18, 1965 at the Actor's Workshop in San Francisco. The play was directed by Marc

Estrin. The set was designed by Robert LaVigne and costumes were designed by Louise Foss. The cast was as follows:

Jean Harlow . . . . . . . . . . . . . Billie Dixon Billy the Kid . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Bright

The Beard was first published in a presentation edition of 300 copies. The author wishes to extend his special thanks to Billie Dixon, Richard Bright, Marc Estrin, Robert LaVigne, and Marshall Krause of the ACLU

-- for all we have gone through together to make a blue velvet eternity.

Introduction

by Norman Mailer

Michael McClure's The Beard is a mysterious piece of work, for while its surface seems simple, repetitive and obscene, there is an action working which is dramatic and comic at once, and the play emits an

odd but intense field of attention, almost like a magnetic field, almost as if ghosts from two periods of the American Past were speaking

across decades to each other, and yet at the same time are present in our living room undressing themselves or speaking to us of the nature of seduction, the nature of attraction, and particularly, the nature of

perverse temper between a man and a woman. Obstinacy face to face with the sly feint and parry all in one, the repetitions serves almost as subway stops on that electric trip a man and a woman

make if they move from the mind to the flesh. That mysterious trip, whose mystery often resides in the dilema of whether the action is extraordinarily serious or meaningless. It is with these ambiguities, these effervescences, that The Beard plays, masterfully, be it said,

like a juggler.  

HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me! Which one will you pursue?

THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?

HARLOW: Because I'm so beautiful.

THE KID: So what!

HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am.

THE KID: Oh yeah!

HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me! Which one will you pursue?

THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?

HARLOW: Because I'm so beautiful.

THE KID: So what?

HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am.

THE KID: Oh yeah! (Pause. He grabs her arm.)                      I'VE GOT YOU!

HARLOW: It's an illusion.

THE KID: (Squeezing her arm and raising it) You mean this meat isn't you?

HARLOW: What do you think?

THE KID: What makes you think you're so beautiful?

HARLOW: Oh, my thighs . . . my voice . . .

THE KID: What about your hair . . .?

HARLOW: What do you think?

THE KID: Your hair came out of a bottle.

HARLOW: You're full of shit! My hair is beautiful and it didn't come out of a bottle -- it's like this.

THE KID: Show me your baby pictures!

HARLOW: You're crazy! Why?

THE KID: To see your hair!

HARLOW: You ARE jealous.

THE KID: You're full of shit!

HARLOW: It's blond -- don't worry! You've got buck teeth!

THE KID: SHUT UP!

HARLOW: You'd like to be beautiful! Maybe you'd even like to be pretty. You wear your hair down to your shoulders. Maybe you'd like

to be a chick!

THE KID: (He takes hold of her arm -- rolls it in his fingers) THIS IS NOTHING BUT MEAT! (He sneers)

HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me!

THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?

HARLOW: Because I'm so beautiful.

THE KID: So what!

HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am!

THE KID: OH yeah!                      THIS IS NOTHING BUT MEAT! (He squeezes her bare arm

and rolls it in his fingers.) --Why should I want to be beautiful?

HARLOW: Oh. . . You're a man.

THE KID: Yeah?

HARLOW: You're a man . . . And men want to be beautiful.

THE KID: I'm sick of that word . . . it makes me want to puke!                      YOU'RE A BAG OF MEAT!

HARLOW: What word?

THE KID: Beautiful. I'm sick of hearing that word coming from a bag of meat.

HARLOW: Don't touch my arm again!

THE KID: Or?

HARLOW: I'll cut your dumb brain open like a bag of meat!                      -- Don't you think I'm . . . lovely . . .

THE KID: You smell like myrrh. Come and sit on my lap. (He pulls her arm)

HARLOW: What if somebody came in and looked!

THE KID: In eternity. There's nobody here!

HARLOW: You said I'm a bag of meat! And you said shit about my hair.

THE KID: Maybe I love you.

HARLOW: You're full of shit. WHO CAN LOVE IN ETERNITY?

THE KID: (With sureness) Sit on my lap.

HARLOW: You're a million miles away, Sweet.

THE KID: Not in eternity! . . . Sit on my lap!

HARLOW: FUCK YOU!

 

from Rare Angel (1974)

RAVEN'S FEATHER, EAGLE'S CLAW, EVERY SONG EVER CHANTED by the whale hunter is a collector's item

and wafts like mountain fog from node to node before becoming clouds.

EVERY BACKWARD

LOOK puts us in touch with sentiment,

and hurts less than peering forward, for tomorrow is the shadow of today.

Even the blue jay gloats over his stash

of brass buttons. See the octopus play with the exoskeleton

of his prey.

The statement's convolution confounds what is already done.

Bulldozed hillsides.

Scarlet flower bugles on the mountain top overlook the graveyard.

Such elegant music when we make it (for poets call it music)

surprises US

in the act of what we do.

The hand plays hide and seek with the eye, and we grow

great brains in honor of the game.

Then we dance and the music follows at our footsteps

and we stop to listen as it passes by.

WE HEAR

THE MUSIC OF

our selves!

Call it animal nature -- or name it Civilization.

 

*       *       *

 

SPARROW HAWK SKULLCAP, LIGHTNING BOLT THAT PASSES

THROUGH THE HAND.

WAVES OF CREATURES FLOATING AT THE EDGE OF FIRE

dive into the air and bound through space with grace we nearly comprehend.

Bodies: brown and black and white all blended. Hoofed and leaping.

TURQUOISE.

CHROME! Berries and Packards all exploding, lined with fur for force fields.

DESTRUCTION UNROLLED UPON THE PLEISTOCENE where we stride in luscious comfort,

and love our children, hug our pets, experience

the alchemy of being.

THE FEW OF US LIKE WAR CHIEFS AND LOVE-GOD PRINCES

STAND ON THE PRECIPICE WITH FOLDED ARMS. THIS LIFE has been

nothing for me but

pleasure.

The worst adversity is only a length

I measure. I direct creation of my bed of eider blackness

and drink the juice of apples as I sup on flesh of crabs.

I hold great minds

that lived before me in my hands.

I KNOW THE MEANING OF THE POWER THAT IS CHANNELED FOR ME. AND I

calmly watch the poisons splashed across the land.

 

from Star (1970)

MAD SONNET 1

THE PLUMES OF LOVE ARE BLACK! THE PLUMES OF LOVE ARE BLACK! AND DELICATE! OH!

and shine like moron-eyed plumes of a peacock with violetshine and yellow on shadowy black.

They SPRAY from the body of the Beloved. Vanes shaking in air.

__________________________________

AND I DO NOT WANT BLACK PLUMES OR AGONY . . . AND I DO NOT SURRENDER. And I ask for noble combat

to give pure Love as best I can

with opened heart. Love,

I have not seen you before and you're more beautiful than a plume!

Stately, striding in Space and warm . . . ( Your human breasts! )

LET ME MAKE YOUR SMILE AND HEARTSHAPED FACE IMMORTAL -------------------------------

YOUR GREY EYES ARE WHAT I FINALLY COME TO WITH MY BROWN! AND YOUR HIGH CHEEKS, and your hair rough

for a woman's -- like a lamb. And the walking virtue that you are!

 

*       *       *

 

LOVE LION

OH FUCKING LOVER ROAR WITH JOY -- I, LION MAN! I GROAN, I AM, UPON THE CONE SHAPED BREASTS

& tossing thighs!

--AND SEND MY THOUGHTS INTO A BLACKER UNIVERSE OF SUGAR!

Thy face is a strained sheer Heart twisted to fine beauty by thy coming.

it is a million miles from toes to thighs! (Our bodies beat like the ultimate movie

slowed to blurs of two meat clouds becoming one -- and the Undershroud is joined

by kissing mouths.)

OH!

OH!

And I am some simple cub with plump muscles, loving immortality!

THE SHEETS ARE WHITE.

THE PILLOW SOFT.

JESUS HOW I HATE THE MIDDLE COURSE!

Thy eyes! Thy eyes!

 

from On Organism (1974)

NIRVANA ALSO DEPENDS ON THE TREASURES OF THE TATHAGATA. YET DEATH IS NEVER A WHOLLY WELCOME GUEST.

SWIM MUSIC DARK GLOAMING THUNDER. LISTENING SMOKE SHEET WRINKLE MORNING.

A blackened face with clouds of blue smoke from the forehead. Russian wolfhound crunching the ribs of sheep.

An envelope filled with orchid seeds. Bright green creatures.

Appearance of the Ghost of Love. Chairs covered with moss.

Palm trees the size of bacteria. The sexual thrill of darkened autos.

Ammonia. Ammonites. Pineapple.

Silver dollars in the stocking. Pineapple.

Ammonites. Ammonia.

The sexual thrill of darkened autos.

Palm trees the size of bacteria. Chairs covered with moss.

Appearance of the Ghost of Love. Bright green creatures.

An envelope filled with orchid seeds. Russian wolfhound crunching the ribs of sheep.

A blackened face with clouds of blue smoke from the forehead. LISTENING SMOKE SHEET WRINKLE MORNING.

SWIM MUSIC BARK GLOAMING THUNDER. YET DEATH IS NEVER A WHOLLY WELCOME GUEST.

NIRVANA ALSO DEPENDS ON THE TREASURES OF THE TATHAGATA.

 

*       *       *

 

EACH BON MOT HAS COST ME A PURSE OF GOLD. ERASE THE LINES OF THE NIGHT FROM THE COUCH OF THE DAY.

COOL TURQUOISE CRYSTAL FEATHER -- WOLF PROTON GYRE. SCROLLED FERN SHADOW SPORE -- BREAST SALT MOON.

Wheel of the galaxy turning in tumbleweed. Faces of antelope staring from ice cream. Watches ticking on the backs of turtles.

Tambourines tinkling in apple trees. Flames full of creatures arising from the mouths of worms

Bearded men pondering in dreams. Bees and moths darting on the fields of purple asters. Odor of hummingbird mint crunched under boot heel.

Maya. Spirit.

Matter. River. Creek. River.

Matter. Spirit. Maya.

Odor of hummingbird mint crunched under boot heel. Bees and moths darting on the fields of purple asters.

Bearded men pondering in dreams. Flames full of creatures arising from the mouths of worms.

Tambourines tinkling in apple trees. Watches ticking on the backs of turtles.

Faces of antelope staring from ice cream. Wheel of the galaxy turning in tumbleweed.

SCROLLED FERN SHADOW SPORE -- BREAST SALT MOON. COOL TURQUOISE CRYSTAL FEATHER -- WOLF PROTON GYRE.

ERASE THE LINES OF THE NIGHT FROM THE COUCH OF THE DAY. EACH BON MOT HAS COST ME A PURSE OF GOLD.

 

From September Blackberries (1974)

99 THESES

1. MAN IS A CARNIVORE EXPERIENCING HIMSELF. 2. MAN IS A MAMMAL.

3. THE UNIVERSE IS THE MESSIAH. 4. THE CREATURE IS ONE BEING.

5. ONE BEING IS POLYTHEISM. 6. THE 27 SENSES ARE EXTRUSIONS OF MESSIAH.

7. THE SENSES ARE GODS AND GODDESSES. 8. THE MAMMAL & THE STAR ARE EQUAL.

9. THE STARS ARE A GAS. 10. THE GALAXIES ARE A LIQUID.

11. ALL LIFE IS A MEAT SCULPTURE FREED OF TIME, SPACE & DIMENSION.

12. THIS SOCIETY IS A CAGE FOR THE MAMMAL. 13. ALL CREATURES OF WING, FIN, FUR, TENTACLE, PROTOPLASM --

ARE EQUAL. 14. THE PANDA IS A PEACOCK.

15. MAN IS A PANDA. 16. THE SALMON IS A MAN.

17. THE WOLF SINGS. 18. CARBON, HYDROGEN, NITROGEN, OXYGEN, SULFUR.

19. THE STAR IS A SUN. 20. CHILDREN ARE FREE. 21. THE BODY IS A CHILD.

22. THEISM REJECTS THE MESSIAH. 23. THE PHYSIOLOGICAL BODY IS PURE SPIRIT.

24. EACH SELF IS MANY SELVES. 25. THE INVISIBLE EXTENSIONS OUTWARD ARE AS COMPLEX AS THE

VISIBLE EXTENSIONS INWARD. 26. THE SENSORIUM, MEMORIES, AND GENES -- ARE

CONSTELLATIONS. 27. ALL CONSTELLATIONS ARE ONE CONSTELLATION.

28. LIFE SURGES. 29. EXTINCTION IS AN APPEARANCE.

30. THE SNOW LEOPARD IS A WORM ELF. 31. EARTH IS A SNOW LEOPARD.

32. LIFE IS TOPOLOGICAL COMPLEXITY. 33. WEALTH IS ENERGY.

34. ELECTRONICS DEVOLVE FROM THIS STAR. 35. THERE IS NOT INTELLIGENCE BUT INTELLIGENCES.

36. CRUELTY, TORTURE, SELFISHNESS, VANITY ARE BORING.

37. EACH MAMMAL DESERVES. 38. THE SLOTH AND THE EAGLE ARE EQUAL -- MEN ARE EQUAL IN THE

SAME WAY. 39. THERE ARE, AND ARE NOT, MOLECULES AND ATOMS.

40. ONLY THE SELVES CAN DOMESTICATE THE SELF-DOMESTICATED. 41. MAN AND THE DOG ARE SELF-DOMESTICATED.

42. MEN FEED WILD MUSTANGS TO DOGS, AND WHALES TO CATS. 43. THE SEA URCHIN IS A GREAT PHILOSOPHER.

44. PLATO EQUALS CHARLIE CHAPLIN -- JESUS IS ANACREON. 45. MONEY IS FUNNY.

46. THE DOLLAR IS A COLLAR. 47. CLOVER IS A CREATURE.

48. THERE IS ENOUGH WATER FOR ALL WHO SHOULD BE. 49. EVERYTHING IS NATURAL.

50. REASON IS BEAUTY. 51. MEAT IS THOUGHT.

52. THE GREEKS WERE THE LAST TO DEIFY THE SENSES. 53. MONOTONY IS MADNESS.

54. THE FRONTIER IS OUTSIDE. 55. THE FRONTIER IS INSIDE.

56. LIFE BEGINS WITH COILING-MOLECULES & NEBULAE. 57. RELIGION, MATERIALISM, POLITICS, PROGRESS, TECHNOLOGY-ARE

EVANGELISMS. 58. EVANGELISMS ARE PROLIFERATIONS OF MONOTONY.

59. REVOLUTION IS SENTIMENT. 60. REVOLT IS BIOLOGICAL.

61. THE LIGHT ON YOUR FINGERTIPS IS STARLIGHT. 62. PROPORTION AS MEASUREMENT IS FALSITY.

63. THE BLACK MAN IS NOT THE PINK MAN OR THE YELLOW -- THEY ARE MAMMALS.

64. DREAD THE POLITICO AND PREACHER WHO CAN DELINEATE A MESSIAH.

65. NATIONS ARE FALSE DIVISIONS OF CONTINENTS. 66. CITIES ARE SWIRLS OF POPULATION.

67. IT IS NATURAL TO DROWN IN CITIES -- IT IS NATURAL TO SWIM IN WAVES.

68. THERE IS ONE LANGUAGE -- GESTURE, VOICE AND VIBRATION OF BODY.

69. YOUTH IS CLUBBED WHEN IT RISES OR OPENS. 70. THE BODY IS ELF LAND.

71. THE CHILD IS A BEAST OF BURDEN -- HE IS USED FOR WAR. 72. LIFE IS NOT REST BUT ACTION.

73. LIGHT AND DARKNESS ARE ARBITRARY DIVISIONS. 74. THE FIST IS REAL -- THE MACHINE GUN, BOMB, NAPALM, ARE

FANTASIES OF COMMUNICATION. 75. PROPAGANDA IS NARCOSIS.

76. POPULATION IS AN ADDICTION. 77. LOVE CAN ONLY BE MADE, OR INVENTED, WITH MEAT.

78. PRISONS AND COURTROOMS ARE MONOTONY. 79. WAR IS ONE COLOR.

80. THE PUSSY WILLOW, THE REDWOOD, THE BUTTERFLY -- ARE BLOSSOMS.

81. MADNESS IS TEMPORARY AND NATURAL. 82. WHERE THE BODY IS -- THERE ARE ALL THINGS.

83. SOUL IS BORING -- SPIRIT FLIES. 84. THE CRICKET IS A WARRIOR AND A GOD OF MUSIC.

85. THE FALCON IS A CLOSE AND TEMPORARY ACQUAINTANCE. 86. ANY SEXUAL GROUP IS APPARENTLY NATURAL.

87. CLEANLINESS IS UNDEFINABLE AND AS NATURAL AS FILTH. 88. DRUGS ARE BRIEF ALCHEMY.

89. MORALE IS VIGOR. 90. THE YOUNG CREATURE IS AGILE.

91. THE OLDER CREATURE IS STRONG. 92. WISDOM, MEMORY, IMAGINATION, ARE SENSORY --

CONSTELLATIONS OF INTELLECTIVE MEAT. 93. MODERATION DERIVES FROM MULTIPLICITY OF EXPERIENCE.

94. NOW SUCKS. 95. PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE AND DIMENSIONS ARE A FIELD FOR

BALANCE. 96. LUCK IS A CREATION OF THE MEAT.

97. LUCK AND MEAT ARE DIVINE. 98. THE EYE AND TONGUE ARE A FIELD OF CREATURES.

99. MEAT' IS A MOVING CAVE IN THE SOLID AIR.

                                                   -Paris 1970

 *       *       *

 MOIRÉ

for Francis Crick

1. THE CHANTING IN TIBET HAS NOT CEASED -- IT IS AS IMMORTAL AS MEAT.

2. HORNS, CYMBALS, AND LIGHTNING BOLTS OVER GLACIERS. 3. BEARDED SEA OTTERS CRACKING MUSSELS ON STONES ON THEIR

STOMACHS. 4. COYOTES LAUGH AND PRANCE ON POINT REYES.

5. REVIVE THE PLEISTOCENE. 6. PLEISTOCENE IS NOT GLACIO-THERMAL -- IT IS MEAT-MAMMALIAN. 7. CRACKS IN THE SIDEWALK REFLECT THE DISPERSION OF CLOUDS

AND AURAS OF COLOR. 8. REALITY IS A POINT, A PLATEAU, A MYSTERY.

9. IT MAY BE PENETRATED. 10. WI LDFLOWERS: MAN ROOT, SEPTEMBER BLACKBERRIES,

MONKEYFLOWERS. 11. POEMS AND PERCEPTIONS PENETRATE THE PLATEAU.

12. SUCCULENT GARDENS HANG ON CLIFFS. 13. THE VELVET BUTTERFLY AND THE SMILING WEASEL.

14. BENIGN VISAGES FLOATING IN AIR.

15. SPIRIT IS ACTION. 16. ACTION IS PROTEIN.

17. BONES OF THE SABER TUSK IN ASPHALT. 18. MOTILE POEMS LIKE FINGERS OR ROOT TIPS.

19. AMINO TRIGGERS IN SPACE. 20. WE ARE ACTIVITY.

21. BELOW US IS STEADY AND SOLID. 22. SOON ENOUGH.

23. PERHAPS WE RETURN TO A POOL -- STEADY AND SOLID. 24. NO MATTER -- ANTI-MATTER.

25. WE HAVE THE JOY OF HERETICS. 26. WE DID NOT CHOOSE IT -- WE ARE.

27. PERFECT. 28. PERFECT PLATEAU BECOMING ODORS AND TOUCHES.

29. I DID NOT KNOW THIS IS NATURE. 30. THE BLANKET FLOWS OUT OF THE WINDOW -- ON IT ARE YELLOW

BANDS WOVEN WITH RED BISON. 31. SOLID BLACKNESS ABOVE AND BELOW.

32. MUSIC BETWEEN. 33. FORESTS OF MOSS IN THE COLD STREAM.

34. BULK OF A DEAD SEA LION -- DARK EYES OPEN. 35. THE DESERT IS ALIVE.

36. THE FIR FEELS THE SOLSTICE. 37. SENSE HORIZONTALLY, ASPIRE VERTICALLY -- AGNOSIA.

38. KEATS, DIRAC, DIONYSIUS THE AREOPAGITE. 39. TRUMPETS, CYMBALS, WARM GRASS, ROAR OF A MOTORCYCLE.

40. LEATHER, QUARTZ, AND CINNAMON. 41. DISSOLUTION IS A PRIVILEGE.

42. HAIL PLANARIAN! 43. SWEET, WARM AND ODOROUS IN THE AUTUMN SUN.

44. BLACKER THAN BLACK, BLUE-BLACK -- A MIRROR REFLECTING REDS.

45. SCREAMS AND FLAMES OVER THE HORIZON. 46. CREAK OF EUCALYPTUS BOUGHS.

47. THE PLATEAU IS A POINT, THE MASK OF A DIMENSION. 48. THE MASK IS ENFORCED BY ENSOCIALIZATION OF PERCEPTIONS.

49. SEPTEMBER BLACKBERRIES ARE FREE. 50. THERE ARE STILL BLOSSOMS.

51. CONDENSATION FALLS PATTERING ON LEAVES. 52. MACHINE GUNS COMMUNICATE BULLETS.

53. BOMBS ARE SYMBOLS FOR MEAT 'THOUGHTS. 54. FACES OF MALEVOLENCE AND FOLLY STARE FROM THE WALLS.

55. FLEECE MOVING IN THE BREEZE BY THE FIRE IS LOVELY. 56. WE ARE OLD WOLVES, INDIANS, CREATURES.

57. ETERNITY BECOMES BROWN-GOLD FOR AN INSTANT. 58. TIME IS THE LONG WAY BACK.

59. IGNORANCE, LIKE INFORMATION, IS A LEVER. 60. THE BODY'S ODORS -- THE BERRY'S ODORS. 61. THE MASS OF INFORMATION WHITES OUT.

62. RAINBOW AGAINST WHITE -- PROJECTED ON BLACK.

63. THE SELVES FLYING THROUGH THE BODY HAVE FACES. 64. THEY STREAM WITH TAILS OF COLORS.

65. SENSATION MAY PRECEDE INFORMATION. 66. WE DIVE BOTH DOWN AND OUTWARD.

67. SOLIDITY AND VIBRATION. 68. UNEXPECTED PROFILES AND FACES.

69. THE BRAMBLE TANGLE IS A MOVING SCULPTURE. 70. DRAGONS OF SPACE AND MATTER.

71. FALSE PERCEPTIONS MIMIC THE REAL -- A COVER. 72. THE BODY MAY BE DIAGRAMMED WITH COLORS AND ODORS.

73. THERE IS A FIRE AND TRAJECTORIES OF ENERGIES.74. BEYOND THE MASK OF THE POINT ARE TRILLIONIC INTERLOCKED

CONSTELLATIONS.75. PLEASURES ARE NOT RELATIVE BUT ACTUAL -- BLACKBERRIES,

SEA LIONS, TENDRILS.76. PERCEPTIONS ARE HERETIC -- THEY NEGATE ABSENCE.

77. ABSENCE IS LACK OF PERCEPTION. 78. THE MUSSEL SHELL CRACKS ON THE ROCK.

79. WAVES OF WATER AND PROTOPLASM. 80. COYOTE SHIT -- THE TAJ MAHAL.

81. WINGED TIGERS ENCASED IN TRANSPARENT SILVER. 82. MY WHISKERS -- THE WOLF'S BEARD.

 

from Jaguar Skies (1975)

SONG

I'M AN EAGLE IN THE WHIRLPOOL. I'm the fox of reason.

I have had my head bent for truth and treason. I'm a star in the sunny moon light.

I'm the stumbling fool. I'm the horse of night

careening on the cliff of flight. Won't you kiss me? Won't you hug me?

Please tell me my name.

I'm the hand of April with my fingers made of fame.

Come kiss me on my elbow. Bless my

mind good night.

Sweet old flame. Sweet old flame.

Bless my mind goodnight. Come kiss me on my elbow.

With my fingers made of fame, I'm the hand of April.

Tell me my name. Please,

won't you hug me? Won't you kiss me?

Careening on the cliff of flight. I'm the horse of night. I'm the stumbling fool.

I'm a star in the sunny noon light. I have had my head bent for truth and treason.

I'm the fox of reason. I'm an eagle in the whirlpool.

 *       *       *

  ¡EL CERRO ES NUESTRO!

THE FLAME IS OURS! We are the candle

that holds itself aloft.

We are the Andes among creatures

and our hands are soft and our cotex is a beacon

as are our toes. You and I

are a river of light that pours

and gleams in

the blue-black

snows.

We are perfect as the tooth of a squirrel!

                   --Lima-Huancayo railroad, Peru

from Antechamber 1978

THE RAINS OF FEBRUARY

THERE'S CRUELTY IN EVERY JEWEL

and each black lump of coal

was once a multitude

of lives. Within his skin

each guru holds a fool

but none like me

who secretly contrives a liberation

filled with buttercups and blue-eyed grass

and golden tracks of spring upon the hill

and air that's filled with scent of rose

and dill.

*       *       *

SESTINA

WE ARE WHITE FLAMES IN BLACK and we are silver candles,

smiles on roses, newborn babes,

otter consciousness, and night shades.

We are ghostly shades and the shapes of black

bonfires that melt through consciousness. Perceptions are candles

and we are babes who imagine the thorns of roses.

The petals of roses make pink and blue shades

and scents over babes who fear no black

candles in the hugeness of consciousness.

We are the autumn of consciousness giving birth to spring roses

by the silverware next to the candles. Not all of the shades

nor all of the purple and black convinces us we are other than babes.

You know we are babes. Each thing is our consciousness.

The caves is black but it is filled with roses

--and though we draw the shades we light the candles.

The bright glow is from the candles in the hands of babes

who outline the shades of perception in consciousness.

See there are roses! They stand in the black.

Those are candles of consciousness that show we are babes and floating roses.

We are shades of flesh turning on black.

from Fragments of Perseus (1983)

LISTEN LAWRENCE

LISTEN, LAWRENCE, THERE ARE CERTAIN OF US INTENSELY COMMITTED

TO a

real A REAL,

REVOLT! A REVOLT that we only begin to conceptualize as we

achieve it! THE CONCEPTION

BEGINS SLOW -- as we do it -- as we really do it -- as we make the revolution

with our bodies -- our real BODIES! OUR REAL BONES ARE NOT DIVISIBLE

from the bulks of our brother and sister beings!

We're alarmed by the simultaneous extinction and overcrowding of creatures:

WE BELIEVE

that the universe of discourse (of talk and habbit-patterned actions)

and the universe of politics are equivalent!

THAT POLITICS IS DEAD and

BIOLOGY IS HERE!

We live near the shadow AT THE NEAR EDGE OF THE SHADOW

((TOO NEAR!!)) of the extermination

of the diversity of living beings. No need

to list their names (Mountain Gorilla, Grizzly, Dune Tansy)

for it is a too terrible elegy to do so!

COMMUNISM, CAPITALISM, SOCIALISM,

will do NOTHING, NOTHING

to save the surge of life -- the ten thousand

to the ten thousandth, vast, Da Vincian molecule of which

ALL LIFE, ALL LIFE

is a particle

*

LISTEN, BELIEVE                                                    ME,

none of us can afford to luxuriate, if we care about the presence of life.

The whole scene

IS ALL ONE DIMENSIONAL! MARCUSE was right!

because he saw there is only one, one-dimensional, planet-wide civilization

and realpolitik.                                                         Unfortunately it is modeled on one of the most

perfect aspects of our nature: THE DESIRE TO GROW, TO WASTE, TO BREED, TO BURN UP,

TO EAT, TO TOSS DOWN, TO TEAR UP, TO FINGER AND TWIST, AND TEASE, AND MAKE ALL

THINGS TERRIBLE AND DIVINE, AND GLORIOUS! And we have

succeeded TOO WELL,                                                              TOO WELL!

We are the most complete successes the world has ever known!                    

                                   POLITICS is

part and particle

of this horrific success, success which is -- in fact -- an explosion that has ALREADY OCCURRED. We have charred the surface of the earth leaving behind

buildings which are cinders from the blasts of oceans of petrochemicals! Look, books and papers are

the fossil fuel explosion of trees! LISTEN, LAWRENCE, this

is the same old politics! ANY, ANY, ANY POLITICS

is the POLITICS OF EXTINCTION!

*

IT IS TIME FOR PEOPLE TO COME OUT OF THE CLOSET ALL RIGHT!                                              

ALL RIGHT!                                                              IT IS TIME FOR THEM

to come out of the closet -- OUT OF THE CLOSET OF POLITICS

and into the light of their flesh and bodies! NOW

is THE TIME

to learn to see with the systemless system

--with the systemless system like a Negative Capability --

of anarchist-mammal perception! THAT'S BIOLOGY! Now is the time

to see that it is our nature to be beautiful

and the destruction wrought by politics is part of our beauty. Now we can learn to see why it is our nature to go on with

this destructive politics. NOW WE CAN SAY: LET'S STOP! LET'S STOP

THIS ENDLESS MURDER BY POLITICS! LET US

DO WHAT WE CAN TO STOP

so very much useless pain!

It is our nature to overbreed and kill! but our nature has endless dimensions! We can choose among them -- we can reject,

we can reject the flowers of politics!

 

*       *       *

 

HYMN TO KWANNON

BEAUTIFUL KWANNON AND BEAUTEOUS GODDESSES OF MERCY! WE THANK YOU KWANNON.

WE THANK YOU GODDESSES OF MERCY. HAVE PITY ON EVERYTHING. HAVE PITY ON EVERYTHING. HAVE PITY ON EVERYTHING.

BE KIND TO YOURSELF, AS ALLEN SAYS. BRING GENTLENESS TO EVERY LIVING BODY.

HAVE PITY, HAVE MERCY. EVERYTHING LIVES.

HAVE PITY -- MERCY.

HAVE MERCY -- PITY.

EVERYTHING LIVES. BE KIND TO YOURSELF, AS ALLEN SAYS. BRING JOY TO EYES THAT ARE STARS.

JOY TO EYES THAT ARE STARS.

ERASE OUR

PAINS. WALK WITH SOFT HEALING FEET

OVER OUR GRIEFS. EVERYTHING LIVES.

KWANNON AND GODDESSES OF MERCY FROM EVERY SPACE

IN THE UNCARVED BLOCK, HEALING BEINGS IN EVERY REALM,

COME AND STEAL OUR PAINS AND LAUGH AND KISS THEM.

HAVE PITY, HAVE MERCY. MERCY AND PITY.

BE KIND TO YOURSELVES.

COME KISS OUR GRIEFS ON THEIR NOSES.

BE KIND TO THE BEASTS CAUGHT IN THEIR TRAPS.

GIVE THEM GRAIN, GIVE THEM SUGAR

AND FREEDOM. MERCY FOR THOSE WHO LIE

IN THE MUD OF THE

WARS. SAVE OUR BELOVED WHALES,

KWANNON, KWANNON, AND THOU,

OH GODDESS OF MERCY.

WE CREATURES OF TURQUOISE AND FLESH AND FLUFF. CALL ON YOU.

EVERYTHING LIVES. BEAUTIFUL KWANNON AND BEAUTEOUS GODDESS OF MERCY,

WE THANK YOU, WE THANK YOU. KWANNON BEAUTIOUS GODDESSES OF MERCY!

 

from Rebel Lions (1989)

MAYBE MAMA LION

for Ray Manzarek

OH YEAH

!           !

No,

it's oh yeah. . . oh yeah . . .; the wound papered over, making paper tygers

--WITH A BANDAID . . . BANDAIDS . . . BANDAIDS . . .

- F E E L I N G

SO BAD!

Out of body in the blackness. Solid silver blackness of forty billion years --in an agony of Crazy, knowing nothing

--looking for a self to hold the mind. BEEN THERE MANY TIMES. BEEN THERE MANY TIMES.

The sand underfoot is just a blackness to hold the blind. coming back to voices: CALI, GOING BACK TO CALI, BACK TO CALI

FORNIA, FORNIA,

NOT TO THE FUR N A C E

-- but to the wound!

Many years covered over, still deep S T I L L

there; TRIED TO BANDAGE IT with long stem roses and white ferns.

((Lying on the beach watching chipmunks, watching chipmunks and BUGS

and ODD

patterns ON

the leaves HURT IN

MY SELF ES T E E M !

((There's a bloody war outside that's whistling through the wound!))

stretching out to Someone

in a

DREAM; IT'S NO DREAM, STRETCHING OUT TO MAMA LION

IN A DREAM SO BAD! FEELING SO BAD! ALL MY FRIENDS

HAVE LEFT ME and we're eating rich food, rich food,

with the sound of silver clinking on the finest plates

--IN CALI, GOING BACK TO CALI-- KALI,

we're eating you in a dream. You're a salmon.

California salmon coming back to rivers flowing from a head

on a cliff where folks look down on the top of eagle's wings.

IT'S A GOOD LIFE! IT'S A GOOD LIFE! IT'S A GOOD LIFE!

(out of body out of mind)

--while the rain forests are coming down

Hear the crashing sound

IT'S DEEP INSIDE

Your life swinging round

your body.

Does Mama Lion love you?

Does Mama Lion love you?

DOES MAMA LION LOVE YOU?

Can the salmon drown?

 

*       *       *

 

DISTURBED BY FREEDOM

MY HAND IS A GUN AND EACH FINGER IS A BARREL

and my arm is growing searching reaching like a DREAM and I don't know

what to shoot, surely not the robins who have flown ALL

the way BACK

from the mountains of Sonora over the desert where I have driven amazed at the craggy

strangeness of raw beauty. ((THAT'S WHAT I AM ABOUT: BEAUTY.

--BEAUTY AND SENSE)) and these robins have alighted here

in these green meadows where sprinkled water turning warm runs over the masses of pink blooms.

I CANNOT SHOOT THE SOUND OF THE TRAFFIC. A hundred bullets

would not stop that bus and I would not hurt the children

or the adolescents at the moving windows with their pink mohawk haircuts

and their sexual cries LIKE HUMAN MACAWS.

It is another day and another dollar. I

WONDER WHERE

I AM

((ROAMING SO SWEETLY FROM FIELD TO FIELD DIS-

TURBED BY MY FREEDOM!)) --AND LOOK AT THE DEEP SCRATCHES THAT MADMEN

make with their keys on the sleek red lacquer of my car.

I taste coffee in my mouth. MY MOUTH IS WHERE I AM LIVING TODAY

but I am lonely as a skinny old white cat with blue eyes

and irregular jagged spots of gray and black showing a tiger pattern.

I am a tyger, I am an owl. I am some ancient wisdom taking its own pulse and listening:                          

                          BANG! BANG!, goes my finger.

BANG! Lover, I wish                                           we had bought the purplish polish for your

                                                   toe                                                    nails!

from Simple Eyes (1994)

THE FOAM                 IT IS BRAVE TO BE THE FOAM

                    and sing the foam

          IT IS BRAVE TO BE THE FOAM,

                              not really!

      Inside is no place but an infinitude                                                    of places

                          -- positions                                     becoming everything

                                              in there.

           THIS               is

      THE FOAM

                      LIFE-LIKE STARS,                                               they too are the foam.

     The deer antler fallen on the grass within the yard                                                                      is foam

          as is the dew that mottles it.

           Thousand foot deep clouds of one-celled beings            with shells of silicon and waving pseudopods

             in oceans in another time and place                                                                   are foam

           as are the uplifted peaks of shale they leave behind.              The visions of William Blake in future caves of thought

                  that are meat and plastic-steel are foam,                             --as are Whitehead's luminous dreams

                                                   --all foam

     Matter, antimatter, Forces, particles, clouds of mud,            the wind that blows in cypress trees, pools of oil

                on desert floors.

     THE BOY'S EYES NO LONGER SQUINT, LOOK DOWN

          and there is nothing in his hand                 nothing in his hand that's everything

            and he stares through squeezed caves                 of blackness

                                         at a man's eyes                 that shape a photograph of him

                     upon the fields of war and appetite      for iridescent foam of nacre-red and green and

                         MORTAR                             THUD

                on beaches on a wave-lapped shore

           WHERE     HIS     MOTHER/FATHER     SCREAM     AND                 SHOUT

                and throw each other on the floor

                          and

                          HE

                        HAS                   ! ARISEN !

                       ebullient                        from this exuberance

      and wears his red Y upon his woolen chest                   for it is his

                --as is the future state

                THIS IS NOT METAPHOR                    but fact:

      the green fur forest just beyond the sleek       and glossy plastic edge; shrews in their hunt

      for crickets, hiding in moon shadows       underneath a rusting ford. Blue-black waves

           beat on hulls of ferries. Light moves            from one place, or condition, to another!

      HE'S THERE NOW AND EVERYWHERE       ____________________________________

      HE'S THERE NOW AND EVERYWHERE

                as are the covers of detective magazines                   with evil scientists who scalpel-out                 the hearts of large-bosomed virgins

                  strapped to beds, then implant                 the pump of chrome that sits upon

                    the operating table;                 as is the broken toothpick lying

                    in the rain; as are the

                            HUGE

                            HUGE

                            HUGE

           PASSION THAT HE FEELS

     (shaking in his boy's legs and cock            --And those are the stuff of stars

     that are the flesh of passions that he spins      into this rush of neurons and of popping foam.

     These make immortal perfect shapes of the moments      that hold copper-colored leaves or twigs within

                                                   their hands,      with each foot upon a war and each arm

     and every thought in one.

     AN ANIMAL IS A MIND!

     --A MIND--AND DOES NOT KNOW WHERE IT STOPS!

     --Knows little of bounds or limits or edges.

     --Goes on into all times and directions and dimensions.

     --KNOWING ONLY THROUGH LIMITS THAT CANNOT BE KNOWN!

     --IS A BEING OF SHEER SPIRIT!

     --IS A BEING OF SHEER SPIRIT!

     --IS A BEING OF BOUNDLESS MEAT!

     --IS EVERYTHING IN ONE DOT OF THE CONFLAGRATION!

     IS EVERYTHING IN ONE BARE DOT

     IS EVERYTHING IN ONE DOT OF THE CONFLAGRATION!!

     This is war that he is, and melts in

     AND      IT

     IS      NOT

     FOAM.

     HE

     IS      A

     BE-      ING

                         AND IT IS NOT WAR,                                  HE IS A MAN

                                 !                     !

                   HE IS AN ANIMAL BEING                                          A

                                      MIND

                   HE IS AN ANIMAL BEING                                          A

                                      MIND

 

                        through the windows of his eyes                                fingers and his eyes