good morning message for George W. Bush

The Grand Palace of Versailles

“An elephant made out of cotton..
towers of lace under which satin-heeled
gentlemen sit playing with the bustles
of slightly dessicated Grandes Damns
Good Morning Louis,it’s a fine day
in the mirror

A chaise longue carved
out of the living body of a white leopard
spools of silk placed in buckets
of gilt milk..A three-headed dancer
prancing to the music of a little bell
languidly swung by a Negro with a harelip
Two visiting kings having their canes reheaded
while a painter to the court tints their eyebrows
with the juice of mildly sickening berries
What does Salvador Ernst Matta,Louis?
It’s a fine day in the mirror”
-Patchen

Kenneth Patchen

Kenneth Patchen died in 1972 at the age of 61 after being bedridden for 20 years with crippling rheumatism of the spine
His poems,at least the ones he wrote back in the 30’s& 40's,are often dialectical explorations of issues seen,like Brecht,from the perspective of a revolutionary
He can be obscure but never literary
His righteous anger liberating
Its like he understood that language has to be used in a different way to counter how words have been misused by bourgeois poets
He’s described on the Patchen webpage as a ‘minor American poet’ by a bourgeois academic
I’d take that as a compliment.

Letter to the Old Men
“What have you left for us to say to you?
What have you done that we can praise?
You stand on the ice of our hatred
Your faces are turned to the wall
You have not long
It is quite late for anger
We have not time to forgive you…”
-Patchen

slapstick

Charlie Chaplin’s impassive face
the universal mask
that orphans learn to show to the world
Revolutionaries too
Its nothing personal
First comes food,then morality

whatsyournamewhatsyour namewhatsyourname

Its been years since I had a lost in New York City with my pants falling down dream but here I am confounded again in complicities impossible to sustain in public streets of Manhattan with Joey and Tom who don’t understand
In search for clothes I arrive at building tenement lower east side of legends where celebrity Andy Warhol has media pad away away away up and up flights of flights of littered cluttered stairwell stink into crowded room where the blank eyes of his hipster entourage dead and indifferent remind me why I hate the 60’s
These people only see themselves
I steal a jacket and go down into the street where Joey and Tom stand puzzled by my concerns.
Can’t they see I’ve been exposing myself?

interchangable

The dead doll eyes of the young professional class,the ones who sit in Starbucks working on their lap tops
They seem to be a growing element
Their eyes interchanagable,a class characteristic
Real estate agents arts administrators military officers Phd professors prime ministers artistic directors doctors lawyers senior reporters newscasters media celebrities security consultants political consultants serial killers
All one and the same person

‘The moon shines with so blue a light
over the city
where a decaying generation
lives cold and evil
a dark future prepared
for the pale grandchild’

miller lite

Decided this morning to check out Henry Miller again but I don’t like his reactionary undertone nor am I impressed by the realms of boring abstractions that he presents as profound insights.
Miller is usually viewed as an iconoclast but really his political message is tailored made for a whole layer of tenured intellectuals who don’t want to be bothered.
A fashionable pessimism that rationalizes an abstention from participating in the struggles against the masters of the universe.

Ciao Manhattan

There it is sitting on the shelf of the cd film collection in Verdun library who knows why or how it ever got there
Its a cult classic cinematic look back from 1972 at Edie Sedgwick’s fifteen minute flash of fame just weeks away from her death by overdose
Its like watching the take-outs of a bad home movie I don’t want to remember
The indulgent antics of utterly flatulent people
How glib and trivial they are
How glib and trivial they were
Edie with disconnected eyes and silicone implanted breasts grotesque floundering about
Her voice dragging as she tells in a dead tone how happy and well adjusted she is
Smoking smoking smoking

It’s not meant to be an exposée of the 60’s ’Counter Culture’ but it is

Saint Jacqueline des bins

A clipping I took from the Gazette in 2004 and placed in my Duplessis Orphans file. An obituary on Jacqueline St.Urbain who was abandoned as a child,left on a doorstep on St.Urbain street down in the redlight district. She was given the name of the street by the nuns who used and abused her as a domestic in an orphanage under conditions of enforced servitude. Finally at the age of thirty seven in 1967 she made her break and became a street activist who participate in occupations and other media profiled protests organized by the Duplessis Orphans A newsprint photo of a tiny old lady with wizened face grasping one of her beloved stuffed animals as well as a picket sign at a demo in support of the homeless. 'Des Bins' thats what they used to call the orphanage where Jacqueline was placed because it always smelt of beans .

Saint Jacqueline des bins

look on the brighter side

Death even death has its good points
.I mean if it wasn’t for death we’d still have Bob Hope doing those televised traveling roadshows for the American Marines and the ‘Big Mouth’Martha Raye doing those fucking Fixadent commercials
Not to mention Lorne Greene in that forever gone Shakespearian basso doing those Alpo dog food commercials.
Will the real Eddie Murphy please drop dead?