vendredi 23 mars 2018

LET ME LIVE IN A WORLD PURE
LET ME HAVE AROUND ME
THE PURE
THE PURE HEROS
there are no more negroes, jews, christians. there is only one minority in America. and we ask:
When will BOB DYLAN quit working on Maggie’s Farm?

When will RALPH GLEASON realize he is riding in a Hearst?

When will TIMOTHY LEARY stand on a streetcorner waiting for on no one?

When will the JEFFERSON AIRPLANE and all ROCK-GROUPS quit trying to make it and LOVE?

When will NORMAN MAILER fill his brooklyn town house with presses and feed words to a day-tight night-tight generation?

When will OSWLEY STANLEY expose the traffic of alkaline acid and pour his background into LSD-25?

When will the NEW LEFT RADICAL POLITICS stop laying down limp and liberate the consumer?

When will PABLO PICASSO take the seven thousand paintings he has in storage and give them away with a smile?

When will KEN KESEY swallow the ocean and take us all to Yucatan?

When will MICHAEL BOWEN and friends use, look through, but not package the expansion of human consciousness?

When will ALLEN GINSBERG be blessed by his own seed and golden hairy nakedness?

When will ART-FOR-ART’S-SAKE climb higher than the social responsibility of the civilized past?

When will they all hear the death of LENNY BRUCE?

Our bowels quake
in constipated false alarms.
We are often naked and nameless
in boring room with tedious records
and toy tops that make colored sparks
for drug stained eyes,
smelling of weeds.
Ghosts haunt our heads,
demons are loose in our spinal fluid.
Uptite over glass beads
that focus where we are at
for just a little while…
on dirty strings hung
from Victorian gas fixtures.

Somebody cries in a slow motion bag
and blows the mind
of a skinny, drab redhaired girl
freaking out the gathering
sending everybody to the icebox
checking out the seconal supply.

Somebody in the tall, dark hallway
is still c r y i n g for Lenny,
and won’t come down just yet.



Emmett Grogan and Billy Murcott (The Diggers)
The Careful Language of Panic (1966)


Emmett told you what he thought. He was stand up. He was a man, extreme and contradictory, quarrelsome and kind, charismatic and self-destructive, who willed himself to be a hero, to be better than he felt he was when he became conscious.

For most people it might have been enough to have been a living legend, to have Bob Dylan dedicate an album to you; to be an icon to thousands of people that included Puerto Rican gang leaders, presidents of recording companies, professional thieves, wealthy restauranteurs, movie stars, socialites, Black Panthers, Hells Angels and the Diggers themselves, but Emmett was chasing his own self-perfection, and while the struggle killed him, I cannot help but admire the morality of his premise, and the brutally high standards he established for himself. Emmett was a guidon, carried into battle, an emblem behind which people rallied their imaginations. He proved with his existence that each of us could act out the life of our highest fantasies. This was his goal and his compassionate legacy and I will not minimize it or let myself off the hook of his example, despite his inconsistencies and flaws.

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