Issue 38, Summer 1966
In the beginning of my love wild hearts and trees. Greenness. The waves
at the end of the street. Dynamite proposals. To be a man,
or a white thing crawling through nuns’ dreams. In
the beginning of my heart we walked and rode
motorcycles into each other, killing each other,
fucked japs, in the beginning, and were sammy davis
for alien ginsberg’s frank sinatra. the beginning,
of the alien, of the path back to my self, the cold
illinois skeletons of doestoevsky. in the track crossing,
in the movie feeling (that’s Saturday evening culture
for the blind). I hurt myself. I struck and stabbed
and wounded my own gentle flesh. I began. This sliding
talking pictures of old relatives sudden heroes who were
dead spitos of the winded-up-leroy heading down belmont avenue
thinking he was grey. James Edward’s nose was too ugly hunched open
like that. And the other dude, the doctor, calling him dirty names
invisible kike of the mind. In the beginning I was not born but plotted.
They came north to make me. Brain sparks and the cold cinder wheel.
Sharpened. Remembering. African dances for tarzan, until the jungle pots
boil darkness and the hot sun fashions it into black heroes. Run out of
the south, from falling down wells, from cursing in my sleep, and the dead
fall through the space “of all endeavour.” Bullshit, I limped along with
the rest of the niggers, and was beautiful then to invisible greys. They
found me, found each at the end of the long slaughter house. Who will save
the jesusnigger? Who will come back smiling and licking him silent knowledge.
Who will be the final coming attraction and beautiful character actor of
my bonafide creation? The me’s of it. The strong I’s. Yell. They. CRAAAAAA
AYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYVE to good faith blessing. Ahhh. The nature.
The smell. I am whole.
I am whole.