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All this new stuff goes on top
turn it over, turn it over
wait and water down
from the dark bottom
turn it inside out
let it spread through
Sift down even.
Watch it sprout.

A mind like compost.

–Gary Snyder

Writing to you from rural Japan…


incense gives the dust
  a scent of jasmine–
writing at the keyboard
  raging drunk

 Bruce Hodder

the fog thunders – we put
silver light on face – we
took the heroes in – a billion
years ain’t nothing

Write what you want bottomless from bottom of mind
You’re a genius all the time
Writer-director of Earthly movies sponsored

I want to be considered a jazz poet
blowing a long blues in an afternoon jam
session on Sunday. It take 242 choruses;
my ideas vary and sometimes roll from
chorus to chorus or from halfway through
a chorus to halfway into the next.

music is noise, poetry dirt

fifty pesos
3 cheers forever
It’s beautiful to be comfortable
Nirvana here I am

I demand that the human race cease multiplying its kind and bow out. I advise it.

I curse and rant nowadays because I don’t want to have to work to make a living and do childish work for other men (any lout can move a board from hither to yonder) but I’d rather sleep all day and stay up all night scrubbling these visions of the world which is only an ethereal flower of the world, the coal, the chute, the fire and ashes all, imaginary blossoms.

Artist or no artist, I can’t pass up a piece of fried chicken when I see it, compassion or no compassion for the fowl.

The central entire essence of which is dazzling radiant blissful ecstasy unending, the unbelievable truth that cracks open my head like an oyster.

I’d rather but thin than famous – but I’m fat
paste that in yr. Broadway show

i daydream d.a.levy

is in the room next door

looking out over a city balcony

in summer smoking quietly

musing on the fine curve

of a woman’s legs

sliding among taxicabs

and hot dog sellers

trees shimmering in air

[editors note: who wrote this?]

by Gary Snyder, whose birthday was the 9th. 76!

I went into the Maverick Bar 
In Farmington, New Mexico. 
And drank double shots of bourbon 
		backed with beer. 
My long hair was tucked up under a cap 
I'd left the earring in the car. 

Two cowboys did horseplay 
		by the pool tables, 
A waitress asked us 
		where are you from? 
a country-and-western band began to play 
"We don't smoke Marijuana in Muskokie" 
And with the next song, 
		a couple began to dance. 

They held each other like in High School dances 
		in the fifties; 
I recalled when I worked in the woods 
		and the bars of Madras, Oregon.
That short-haired joy and roughness –
		America – your stupidity. 
I could almost love you again. 

We left--onto the freeway shoulders--
		under the tough old stars-- 
In the shadow of bluffs 
		I came back to myself, 
To the real work, to 
		"What is to be done."

by Gary Snyder

One of my favorites.

— 300,000,000— 

First a sea: soft sands, muds, and marls 
	— loading, compressing, heating, crumpling, 
	crushing, recrystallizing, infiltrating, 
several times lifted and submerged, 
intruding molten granite magma 
	deep-cooled and speckling, 
		gold quartz fills the cracks— 

— 80,000,000— 

sea-bed strata raised and folded, 
	granite far below. 
warm quiet centuries of rains 
	(make dark red tropic soils) 
	wear down two miles of surface, 
lay bare the veins and tumble heavy gold 
	in streambeds 
		slate and schist rock-riffles catch it – 
volcanic ash floats down and dams the streams, 
	piles up the gold and gravel— 

Read the rest of this entry »

by Gregory Corso (excerpt)

The rain
How it rings
     the chopped streets
     the umbrellad bicycles
     the tires of cars
And the trees
How they terrace it
and the roofs
How they avalanche it
   So dark and so sog!
yet how lovely
          the feel of it
     and the sound!: Peet
   please pit peet please pit

by Gregory Corso

Last night I drove a car
			not knowing how to drive
			not owning a car.
I drove and knocked down rubber statues
And watched them cry like rubber dolls
		beneath my concrete wheels.
Nearing Hedgeville, I climbed in
		     the back seat and slept
		excited about my new life.

A Tribute to the Power of Shopping
A Poem in Four Parts

Under Union Square there is thick, womb-tombed dirt
dying for anything other than SUV air and sneering policemen,
Macy’s window propaganda and the five ring-worm billboards ;
Atlas is stumbling now, hyperventilating in the stuffy two-inch slit
between his gasping mouth and the synthetic rock and flattened tar
that brings plastics and styrofoam to shop ;
Even the ground beneath is disturbed and scooped out for a garage
where they leave everything but their wallets
I myself am bundled in polar fleece and a cotton tumble dry low
This big advertisement makes me happy though
I sit like a bum on blackened gum on the corner of two fuming streets
car lights flashing past all those still lights –
busy to get more do more give more spend more than I ever will
and I wonder where all that fuel comes from
I think it might be the dirt,
the decorated undertaker of our black receptacles,
Safeway bags, and radioactive nuclear waste products
Embalmer of our shit and trash, he is mortician and mr. gravedigger;
He’s the blubber bloated of a beached whale
What a terrible stench !
If one day the moon shoots past and the earth grows a bulge
(though I doubt we’ll live to see thirty)
I don’t want to be in charge !
I don’t want to see that day !
Some gloomy November when the crust begins to pop
The earth is mad
It will vomit out our collected wastes
And swallow imposing tricksters
Lava ! Jesus ! Alien invasion and asteroid showers !
O I don’t want a life in the clouds !
How can I stand on vaporized water?
I won’t stand, and I won’t stand for it
I dance with the metal man
and I yell at shoppers
Can’t you see I’m crazy? They pull children closer, they walk away,
I scream after them You’ll be like this one day ! You’ll see !
An old woman asks Is it money you need?
I say Do you know there’s hot magma in the heart of the earth?
I can see she thinks it’s only the devil down there
Or Marijuana

How much power that TV tower yields !
The hill is topped with a blinking red light
Its stretch reaching high into heaven
I glanced at it and saw that the station
needs petroleum power for its broadcast so
some bald man who controls my holiday cheer
can tell me to buy every five minutes
The power of being the highest point in the land
I glanced at the bare knoll and saw no wolves
That might eat me with their fangs
O I longed ! My carcass dragged
by mighty jaws and devoured
I cursed at my inhibitor
Lions, tigers, and bears, all gone! I live my life in shade !
Always under roofs
Beneath ceilings !
I stuff my face with stuffing
and stuff my house with stuff
and insurance and fears
When will we realize we live under the sky
Not in the shadow of towering television?


To Earth
From Bobby:
Craters miles wide
Stripped your land
Hosana in the highest
O Surprise Ribbon and Bow
Raped slopes milked muddy
Flattened forests all bombed
The termites emerge and swarm
Clouds leave ghosts behind in the dusk
Jets of fire shooting up from the ground
A million Christmas trees and multicolored lights
Trees Thickening silhouettes blotted ink of dying leaves


Last night a brown boy walked down the loneliest street in the world
Today the city is filled  the sun bright white and affordable
People sell their goods cheap cheap cheap cheap
Dogs lick their lachrymal mangy hair
Overlooked comatose silence  flies sweeping the dusty air
Orange fruit smashed on the ground sticky and smeared
Water stagnating in the streets  blocks falling out of walls
Land mines paneless windows blanched blue sky
Poisoned rodents ceaseless noise concealed weapons wheeled hot dog stand
A splintering hot dog stand is abandoned on the side of the street
May 2018
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Beat Generation

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