Tarantula
Page 2
what a drag it gets to be. writing
for this chosen few. writing for anyone
cpt you. you, daisy mae, who are
not even of the masses … funny thing,
tho, is that youre not even dead yet …
i will nail my words to this paper,
an fly them on to you. an forget about
them … thank you for the time,
youre kind.
love an kisses
your double
Silly Eyes (in airplane trouble)
Having a Weird Drink with the Long
Tall Stranger
back betty, black bready blam de lam! bloody had a baby blam de lam! hire the handicapped blam de lam! put him on the wheel blam de lam! burn him in the coffee blam de lam! cut him with a fish knife blam de lam! send him off to college & pet him with a drumstick blam de lam! boil him in the cookbook blam de lam! fix him up an elephant blam de lam! sell him to the doctors blam de lam … back betty, big bready blam de lam! betty had a milkman, blam de lam! sent him to the chain gang blam de lam! fixed him up a navel, blam de lam (hold that tit while i git it. Hold it right there while i hit it … blam! ) fed him lotza girdles, raised him in pneumonia … black bloody, itty bitty, blam de lam! said he had a lampchop, blam de lam! had him in a stocking, stuck artichokes in his ears, planted him in green beans & stuck him on a compass blam de lam! last time i seed him, blam de lam! he was standing in a window, blam de lam! hundred floors up, blam de lam! with his prayers & his pig-foot, blam de lam! black betty, black betty blam de lam! betty had a loser blam de lam, i spied him on the ocean with a long string of muslims—blam de lam! all going quack quack … blam de lam! all going quack quack. blam!
sorry to say, but i’m going
to have to return your ring.
it’s nothing personal, excpt
that i cant do a thing with
my finger & it’s already
beginning to smell like an
eyeball! you know, like i like
to look weird, but nevertheless,
when i play my banjo on stage, i
have to wear a glove. needless
to say, it has started to affect
my playing. please believe me.
it has nothing whatsoever to
do with my love for you…
in fact, sending the ring back
should make my love for you
grow all the more profound…
say hi to your doctor love,
Toby Celery
(Pointless Like a Witch)
trip into the light here abraham … what about this boss of yours? & dont tell me that you just do what youre told! i might not be hip to your sign language but i come in peace, i seek knowledge. in exchange for some information, i will give you my fats domino records, some his an hers towels & your own private press secretary … come on. fall down here. my mind is blank. i’ve no hostility. my eyes are two used car lots. i will offer you a cup of urn cleaner—we can learn from each other/ just dont try & touch my kid
got too drunk last nite. musta drunk
too much. woke up this morning with
my mind on freedom & my head feeling
like the inside of a prune … am
planning to lecture today on police brutality. come if you can get away.
see you when you arrive. write me
when youre coming
your friend,
homer the slut
Ballad in Plain Be Flat
the feet were stuck between the petticoat & tom dick & harry rode by & they all screamed … her lips was so small & she had trenchmouth & when i saw what i had done, i guard my face/ the time is handled by some crazy cheerleader snob & sticking her tongue out, dropping a purple tostle cap, she mingles with a bus, caresses a bloody crucifix & is praying for her purse to be stolen up gunpowder alley! her name, Delia, she envies the block of chain & kingdom where the khaki thermometer kid, obviously a front man & getting a commission growling “she’ll drown you! split your eyes! put your mind where your mouth is! see it explode! just 65 & she dont mind dying!” is bending over for scraps of food, fighting an epileptic fit & trying to keep dry in a typical cincinnati weather … Claudette, the sandman’s pupil, wounded in her fifth year in the business & she’s only 15 & go ahead ask her what she thinks of married men & governors & shriner conventions go ahead ask her & Delia, who’s called Debra when she walks around in her nurse uniform, she casts off pure light in the cellar & has principles/ ask her for a paper favor & she gives you a geranium poem … Chicago? the hogbutcher! meat-packer! whatever! who cares? it’s also like cleveland! like cincinnati! i gave my love a cherry. sure you did. did she tell you how it tasted? what? you also gave her a chicken? fool! no wonder you want to start a revolution
look. i dont care what your daddy
says. j. edgar hoover is just not that
good a guy. like he must have information
on every person inside the
white house that if the public knew
about, could destroy those people/if
any of the knowledge that he’s
got ever got out, are you kidding,
the whole country would probably
quit their jobs & revolt. he aint never
gonna lose his job. he will resign with
honor. you just wait & see … cant you figure
out all this commie business for yourself?
you know, like how long can car thieves
terrify the nation? gotta go. there’s a
fire engine chasing me. see you when i get
my degree. i’m going crazy without you.
cant see enough movies
your crippled lover,
benjamin turtle
On Busting the Sound Barrier
the neon dobro’s F hole twang & climax from disappointing lyrics of upstreet outlaw mattress while pawing visiting trophies & prop up drifter with the bag on head in bed with next of kin to the naked shade—a tattletale heart & wolf of silver drizzle inevitable threatening a womb with the opening of rusty puddle, bottomless, a rude awakening & gone frozen with dreams of birthday fog/ in a boxspring of sadly without candle sitting & depending on a blemished guide, you do not feel so gross important/ success, her nostrils whimper. the elder fables & slain kings & inhale manners of furious proportion, exhale them against a glassy mud … to dread misery of watery bandwagons, grotesque & vomiting into the flowers of additional help to future treason & telling horrid stories of yesterday’s influence/ may these voices join with agony & the bells & melt their thousand sonnets now … while the moth ball woman, white, so sweet, shrinks on her radiator, far away & watches in with her telescope/ you will sit sick with coldness & in an unenchanted closet … being relieved only by your dark jamaican friend—you will draw a mouth on the lightbulb so it can laugh more freely
forget about where youre bound.
youre bound for a three octave
fantastic hexagram. you’ll see
it. dont worry. you are Not bound
to pick wildwood flowers … like
i said, youre bound for a three
octave titanic tantagram
your little squirrel,
Pety, the Wheatstraw
Thermometer Dropping
the original undertaker, Jane, with bangs, & her hysterical bodyguard, Coo, who comes from Jersey & always carries his lunch/ they screech around the corner & tie the old buick into a lamppost/ along came three bachelors sprinkling the sidewalk with fish/ they spot the mess. first bachelor, Constantine, he winks at second bachelor, Luther, who immediately takes off his shoes & hangs them around his neck. George Custer IV, third bachelor, weary from trying to chew up a stork, takes out his harmonica & hands it to first bachelor, Constantine, who after twisting it into form of a fork, reaches into shoulder holster of the bodyguard, removes a sickle, & replaces it with this out of shape musical instrument … Luther begins to whistle “Comin thru the Rye” Geo
rge IV gives out with a wee chuckle … all three continue down the avenue & dump the leftover fish into the unemployment office. all except of course for a few trout, which they give to the lady at the lost & found/ accident is reported at 3 P.M. it is ten below zero
do people tell you to your
face youve changed? do you
feel offended? are you seeking
companionship? are you plump?
4 ft. 5? if you fit & are
a full blooded alcoholic
catholic, please call
UH2-6969
ask for Oompa
Prelude to the Flatpick
mama/ tho i make no attempt to disqualify the somber moody you. mama with the woeful shepherd on your shoulder. the twenty cent diamond on your finger. i play no more with my soul like a tinker toy/ i now have the eyes of a camel & sleep on a hook … to glorify your trials would be most easy but you are not the queen—the sound is queen/you are the princess … & i have been your honeyed ground. you have been my guest & i shall not smite you
“are there any questions?” the
instructor asks. a blond haired
little boy in the first row
raises his hands an asks
“how far to mexico?”
poor optical muse known as uncle & carrying a chunk of wind & trees from the meadow & the kind of uncle that says “holy moly” in a mild whisper meeting the farmer who say “here. have some hunger for you.” & lay some good fine work in his nauseous lap/ chamber of commerce tries to tell poor muse that minnesota fats was from Kansas & not so fat, just notoriously heavy but theyre putting up supermarket across the meadow & that should take care of the farmer
“does anybody wanna be anything
out of the ordinary?” asks the
instructor. the smartest kid
in class, who comes to school
drunk, raises his hand & says
“yes, sir. i’d like to be a
dollar sir”
the dada weatherman comes out of the library after being beaten up by a bunch of hoods inside/ he opens up the mailbox, climbs in & goes to sleep/ the hoods come out/ tho they dont know it, theyve been infiltrated by a bunch of religious fanatics … the whole group looks around for some easy prey … & settle for some out of work movie usher, who is wearing a blanket & a pilot’s cap/ it is one second to fourth of july & he does not fight back/ the dada weatherman gets mailed to Monaco. grace kelly has another kid & all the hoods turn into drunken business men
“who can tell me the name of
the third president of the
united states?” a girl with
her back full of ink raises
her hand & says “ernest tubb”
more blue pills father & gobble the little quaint pills/ these gushing swans, rituals & chickens in your sleep—theyve been given the ok & the mad search warrant yes & you, the famous Viking, snatching the time bomb from Sophia’s filter tip, down some jack daniels & get out there to meet James Cagney … a swinging armadillo for your friend, your faithful mob & mona lisa behind you … God ma, the swains are baking him & how i wish i could ease him & honor him with peace thru his veins. make him calm. almighty & slay the horrible hippopotamus of his nitemare … but i can take no martyr’s name nor sleep myself in any gust of dungeon & am sick with cavity … ludicrous, the dead angel, monopolizing my vocal cords, gathering her parent sheep onward & homeward into obituary. she’s hostile. she’s ancient … aretha—golden sweet/ whose nakedness is a piercing thing—she’s like a vine/ your lucky tongue shall not decay me
“is there anyone in class who
can tell me the exact hour his
or her father isnt home?” asks
the instructor. everybody
suddenly drops their pencils
& runs out the door—all excpt
of course the boy in the last
row wearing glasses & who’s
carrying an apple
juicy roses to coughing hands assembling & pluck national anthems! all hail! the football field ablaze with doves & alleyways where hitchhikers wandering & setting fire to their pockets resounding with the nuns & tramps & discarding the weedy Syrian, surfs of halfreason, the jack & jills & wax Michael from the church acre, who cry in their prime & gag of their twins … empty ships on the desert & traffic cops on the broomstick & weeping & hanging onto a goofy sledgehammer & all the trombones coming apart, the xylophones cracking & flute players losing their intimates … as the whole band groaning throwing away measures & heartbeats while it pays to know who your friends are but it also pays to know you aint got any friends … like it pays to know what your friends aint got—it’s friendlier to got what you pay for
down with you sam. down with your
answers too. hitler did not change
history. hitler WAS history/ sure
you can teach people to be beautiful,
but dont you know that there’s a
greater force than you that teaches
them to be gullible—yeah it’s called
the problem force/ they assign everybody
problems/ your problem is that you
wanna better word for world…
you cannot kill what lives an expct nobody
to take notice. history is alive/
it breathes/ now cut out that jive/
go count your fish. gotta go. someone’s
coming to tame my shrew. hope they removed
your lung successfully. say hi
to your sister
love,
Wimp, Your
Friendly Pirate
Maria on a Floating Barge
in a sunburned land winter sleeps with a snowy head at the west of the bed/Madonna. Mary of the Temple. Jane Russell. Angelina the Whore. all these women, their tears could make oceans/ in a deserted refrigerator carton, little boys on ash wednesday make ready for war & for genius … whereas the weary archaic gypsy—yawning—warbles a belch & tracking the cats & withstanding a ratsized cockroach she hardly appears & looks down upon her sensual arena
dear fang, how goes it old buddy?
long time. no see. guess what? was
gonna vote for goldwater cause you
know, he was the underdog but then
i found out about this jenkins thing,
& i figger it aint much, but it’s
the only thing he does have going
for him so i’m changing my vote to
johnson. did you get the clothes i
sent you? the shirt used to belong
to sammy snead so better take good care
of it
see you
Mouse
Sand in the Mouth of the Movie Star
a strange man we’re calling Simply That wakes up to find “what” scribbled in his garden. he washes himself with a scrambled egg, puts his glasses in his pants & pulls up his trousers. there’s a census taker knocking on his door & his orders for the day are nailed up on his mailbox reading that the route on junky monday is therefore as follows: two pints of soft liberty. a book of zulu sayings. citizen kane translated into dirty french. an orange t.v. studio. three bibles each autographed by the hillbilly singer who can sing salty dog the fastest. the back page of a 1941 daily worker. a salty dog. any daughter of any district judge. a tablespoon of coke & sugar heated to 300 degrees. jack london’s left ear. seven pieces of deadly passport. a corn on the cob. five wooden pillows. one boy scout resembling charlie chan & a stolen titerope walker/ “what” is in my garden, he says over the phone to his friend, wally the fireman/ wally replies “i dont know. i really couldnt say. i’m not there” the man says “what do you mean, you dont know! what is written in my garden” wally says “what?” the man says “that’s right” … wally replies that he is on his way down a pole & asks the man if he sees any relationship between doris day & tarzan? the man says “no, but i have some james baldwin & hemingway books” “not good enough” says wally, who again asks “wha
t about a shrimp & an american flag? do you see any relationship between those two things?” the man says, “no, but i see bergman movies & i like stravinsky quite a lot” wally tries again & says “could you tell me in a million words what the bill of rights has to do with a feather?” the man thinks for a minute & says “no i cant do that but i’m a great fan of henry miller” wally slams the phone & the man, Simply That, he gets back into bed & begins reading “The Meaning of an Orange” in german … but by nitefall, he is bored. puts the book down & goes to shave while looking into a picture of thomas edison/ he decided over a bowl of milk to go out & have a good time & he opens the door & who’s standing there but the census taker “i’m just a friend of the person who lives here” he says & goes back in the house & out the back door & down the street & into a bar with a moose head … the bartender gives him a double brandy, punches him in the groin & pushes him into a phone booth—obviously the man’s crime is that he sees nothing resembling anything—he wipes the blood away from his groin with a hankie & decides to wait for a call/ “what” is still written in his garden. the clinics are integrated. the sun is still yellow. some people would say it’s chicken … wally’s going down a pole, the census taker arrives to make a phone call & phone booths dont have back doors/ junky monday driving, going down a one way street & turning into a friday the 13th … Ah wilderness! darkness! & Simply That