Guitars kissing and the contemporary fix

GUITARS KISSING & THE CONTEMPORARY

FIX

along black winds & white fridays, they wash out water & shriek of jungle & lenny immune to the mathematics, he, the greasy quack — the vagabond god… he plants flowers in their saddle bags & speaks of Jesus brave & graduating — tragedy, the broken pride, shallow & no deeper than comedy — bites his path, his noise, his shadow… resign from mind the heart of light & approve the doom, the bending & the farce of happy ending… those that would gas the memory & shut out the might of right, the sight of those defending & offending the blossom girls of the dark, pregnant, permanent & pale outlaw… fair gloria the bow— legged singer, the sign painter’s bastard — joanne, raped by the town historian & silver dolly, devirginated at 12, by her father, a miner — maybelle with a chopped up arm from an uncle — doublejointed barbara, who grinds a compact into the face of a druggist & maureen, the jealous lover… none of them raking leaves ratting on friends who are telephone operators or paying for the like of an e.e. cummings… none of them falling for the ‘purr lost soul’ talk of the hill-billy brawny gospel singer & lenny as the pilgrim angel — the crime but that he reigns in highway christ clothes, boots & a swagger… the lone shark wolf in a world where piemen castrate the dogs & cities for Du Pont, cat magazines & hiding in machines they chew gum, their seeds, their portraits… lenny leaves the woodchuck, the veteran of foreign war to his plymouth 6, his murder page — the Arms Bros chair & to his kidnapper & the radio siren/ the communists would call him lazy & the veteran calls him a bum & yo ho ho & a bottle of rum but he’s nice to priests & dont tangle with the mayor’s daughter ‘n law… he wears silk & bows to yoyos, barbells & the strangers — he steals bow ties & heading for the north & waves to soldiers with amputated hands who picked up broken ashtray pieces & staying clear of muffled & exploding roosters, he pets ornaments & twin pipes/ there is a rhapsody to his toughness & he sure is warm & worthlessly wild.

the deer thru the woods quite out of it

all shall never be the slave but the target

for military & freedom’s legs having no

substitute for death when Sunday professor & the children come out, say ‘watch it. you bound to stumble now!’ & the lady in waiting just collapsing & asked if that’s a threat or perhaps a friendly

warning & the innocent coon being scraped on the table liberty, an orphan sonnet, unwritten &

having no eyes & needs, no defense & getting

some glass in the veins — the conspiracy to kill the free & romantic to custom operating regularly on schedule & attacking now the once that run with no sidecar… go ahead, shoot! all you need is a license & a weak heart

thru the braided hair & loafing beer can beach of wood — brains of the roadhouse & panel trucks filled with cucumber funk, jim beam sweating & lords & ladies in the rear view mirror — humanity in the gang bang mood & yodeling swimmers — the kinks from strike town & itty bitty pretty one lapping up the crankcase rotgut & lenny laughing in a fake sombrero & the jugglers trying to smother the queers & the girls from big city & panoramic way, you found lenny, the dog catcher killer & motorcycle saint you either love him or hate him — attracting the filthy mamas, Tom the Wretched, Mike the Bull & Hazel, the pornographic back slapper… lenny can take the bad out of you & leave you all good & he can take the good out of you & leave you all bad/ if you think youre smart & know things, lenny plays with your head & he contradicts everything youve been taught about people/ he is not in the history books & he either makes you glad to be you or he makes you hate to be you… you know he’s some kind of robber yet you trust him & you cannot ignore him

… the lion’s den then, & anchors away & you remember the table — the

hopped up table of worldly wiggies & unpatriotics & the slut madonna with her squatter’s rights & everybody sexy & picking on the carthieves& some bumbling sacred cow telling how he marched right in & trimmed this chicken just like that but when peter pan of the throttle bums gets up to go someplace, it’s growling & wondering & sentimental because you know he never does — while gloria talks of the fish in her finger with her hair dyed pink & speaking of tomorrow, calling it Sunday & the engine slams & really slams into first gear — & it sounds like john lee hooker coming & oh Lordy louder like a train… the punchdrunk sailor with a scar below his nose suddenly slaps & kicks little sally & makes her let go of the bottoms of his dungarees & you Know he knows something’s happening & it aint the ordinary kind of sound that you can see so clearly & carrrrrashhhhh & a technicolor passion of berserk & napoleonic & suicide & lenny vanishes in the daytime & a bridge girder all lonesome & gone & the trumpets play what theyve always been taught to play in time of emergency — Babylon’s sweetheart & the redblooded boy oozing all over & shock, the defunct rockabilly in a blindfold — dissolve into the motherland for touch & kneeling to instinct, gypsies & into the most northernmost forest he can find

…a roaring free for all is witnessed later between as follows: rabbit seller,

who, because he lives in a room where the rain continues to fall thru the chimney, always has a chronic cough & is constantly in an al capone type mood — call him White Man/ the ex faggot g.i., who now transports dummies from macy’s to yankee stadium & whose ears always bleed in heavy weather — call him Black Man/ the hatcheck girl with a glass eye, whose father taught her how to walk exactly like P. T. Barnum & now she discovers it means nothing — call her Audience/ the candle stick maker, with a mouthful of plastic & his pockets full of used matches — call him Reward/ the bathing beauty who wears a turban full of meatballs — call her Success/ the tug of war rope & a holy bell — boom & the pumphouse guardian stepping out of his coocoo & saying ‘words are objects! sight is ego! did any of you freaks ever know a lenny? i can remember his last name…’ & then some vigilante, he say ‘get back in your clock! you ever heard of lions one, christians nothing?’ & after sending hitler out to murder the poor guardian, he jumps back into the christians & clocks & all types of mink, milk & vitamin C — grannies in titepants & barechested undertakers goosing preachers wearing egg cartons & U. N. generals in bathrobes & their feet stuck in bongo drums & three million jealous teachers in used roy acuff strings all flunking little de gaulles & prison choruses bursting & singing hallaluyah… everybody even Good St. Doc & the bird scientist sucking scruples & nipples & trying to hide their shit… everybody saying ‘disaster!’ & pointing & examining hanging clowns & making reports & going ‘gah gah’ at dead pontiacs & babies in Lorca graves… the tax collector stealing everybody’s useless sacrifice & H. G. Wells unheeded… Lulu the Smith having a heart attack at the birth of a black angel & john brown, Luke the snob & Achilles all reaching for the Flying Saucer… one day, the day of the Tambourines, the astronaut, Micky McMicky, will remove a thumb from his mouth — say ‘go to hell’ while lenny i’m sure is already in a resentful heaven

dear dropout magazine,

gentlemen:

i understand that you are currently

putting a book together about

blacklisted or blackheaded artists or something,

if it is the former, then i shall have to

recommend that you place jerry lee lewis first

an foremost, if it is the latter, then i shall

have to recommend that you contact the american

medical society to discover the exact worth of

such an undertaking

in all respects, i remain

a rabble rouser from the mountains

Zeke the Cork