PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST FIX'S FREE, A discontented falcon...

Piette's Marketplace at Pontoise
A discontented falcon
passed up a taxi driven by

Bodytalk Shelton th'Thin
spreads out his arms & takes off

his hat to the uncontrollable Winds

sinking into th'wild blue yonder of Yawns
threatening to swallow up all

the fervors of his stamina
into th'red/against/black Tolstoy
went insane & turned himself into a cheap
slave--Background: machines

making their musics

while th'bees (which, by th'way
are not machines), aren't really

caring what's th'purpose of the noises
upstairs, since the important thing's
doing it Man--down here

in Grief's great
belly, in this cellar full of
th'Moon's manikins...


You can't Doodat
unless you [Strike!

up the drumbeat, lads!
ex/ex/ex/ex/ex (here
whatever you got) Whatever
I say: That's what matters:
I call the shots: Boom! Boom!


now, Who said I could?
THE FACT that nobody's stood up
(so far) and said I couldn't ... Please
don't: I enjoy't too much, being
tyrant (quite a lot), or,

if you must, at least
let me be your elder statesman

(like Nixon) settled upon th'neck
like Dracula (only
some innocuous rat) th'sweetest

softest Cushion tender-
loin (Death) & what lies! out ahead's
none of your darmned business, baby

hung upon th'Void of theories dead
suspended, absorbing th'sunshine'
moot statements & the shade's brilliant

   --ya'know, there's lots of
takers out there (unashamedly
sinking their teeth into th'givers' golden
hides, without asking th'painful
question: Why? or, "May I?" which is easier

of th'Soul (even if not on th'actual
skin)... Mind you: th'machines making
their musics sans wisdom, including

leading the orchestras of th'changing
minds has me chain-smoking oil-
less down Th'Eleventh Hour

Doodiz, Doodat! watching th'chained
hard, unchangeable, unchanging hands

sucking their pacifier Hope-
lessly passing th'passing machines making
their musics of Doomsday's

taken for granted & so, offended, it
downright refuses to show up
(I've been up all night waiting

already, baby--& it's always:
Performance's canceled!
No Money Back!... try tomorrow
(maybe th'Ruskies will drop a bomb or two
for... ), but refunding of tickets
is strictly forbidden by Law
(newspaper headlines) printed
by machines making their musics

... the vanishing air is canceled, folks
also, declared & running artificial
organs making their musics

pushing buttons
rewards & punishings
levers pulling votes
being counted on

(which don't count
because One has th'right
despite everyONE else)
everything Numero Uno

the ducks laughing
upon us unaware
the air is vanishing
in exhaustion
(not from cars
either--symbol's stiff
sanctions) right out from under

them poor MFKRs, farther from their Heaven
than ever before... machines making their

musics of societies of
distinguished duplicates
triplicates & quad-
rupeds perfectly all alike jackasses

(not all jacks) & lookable tomatoes spoiling [sic]
for THIS or THAT (at uneven rates

streetwalking in their individual
drunkenness: each going to his/or/her drowning
believing only in th'other side of Maybe

visiting th'parks after th'showers
to see if they find (th'World made clean

can you believe it!) whose freshness is
the unfamiliar
footsteps th'other side of Maybe
th'familiar door

whose bark is too known
bite's unheard of

Desire showing itself
under a passing, threatening beard
or graduates from the beauty parlors
th'heat boiling away th'skin at th'nuclear
Sin right off the offended noses
whose business it is...

a mustache complex makes an entrance
into th'living room
for being room: machines making their

living musics from wherein
I am trying to write out
myself: an escape with writing

a stranger myself asking me suddenly
what the hell I'm doing there
buddy, but I'll write onwards

& on a But: Hey, Friend!
I asked you a Question!

& ask me       

      an Answer,

if you're really a friend
All I wanna know is

machines making their musics

What the hell is it you're doing HERE
with all those skeletons

the convenient size of ants
running around everywhere (in there)

like rats, Friend, this is
Private Property
(you've just been born into

--Sorry, I should've made
better plans) I turn
to a stranger

making up a face
he may recognize me by (politically)

recognize?... As a face he tells me
How'd you get in here?

busily counting the cotton-
stuffed corpses lying around for weeks
around me: These yours? No:

Don't they belong to you? aborted
all over the place... REPEAT:

These yours? Why, eventually
I guess ... Well, in that case
you're just gonna have to get them things
outta here For God's Sakes:

Look at my human face!
Don't you recognize me?
I just made it up
exclusively for you!

while he quotes
some obscure ordinances
specifically designed to protect him
& all HIS MIGHTY FRIENDS unnamed, who (guess:
with him: enacted Th'Laws!

SURPRISE!) from my dropping in
on him unexpectedly (Look, I'd let you
remain, in the back somewhere, but
I got a broad in there--You understand,
don't you: You're a man!...) O,

yes: Besides, you wouldn't want me
to violate the strict letter of the law
Original Intent!

         & all... he quotes
obscure ordinances under flashlight
(so only he knows) concerning

th'specific number of dead bodies
per square inch allowed
required or wanted, actually
I joke & he shoots back
at me:

  Dead or alive! machines
making their musics & starts throwing
out th'windows: my eternal companions, comrades
& crazy companions of my youth

I thought I'd carry them with me to my old
old ... Hey! & hopelessly I shout out
at them: This ain't no game any more!

Come'on, guys! tell the man you're really
living people, man: They're alive! Alive!
You better do it in a hurry, man! He's
really gonna throw you out the window!
Wait & watch! Man!

      ... BUT I know these people
& they are all dead serious
all right--

not high on drugs, mind you
but much worse: artists
down to th'last (they have not yet
nor ever will they grow up) but
going back (in order to recheck
th'function: he points with his
tired flashlight

          These yours? well, friend,
you gonna have to get them right outta here

ForGod's Sakes! I scream: We've already been
through all that! Then you know the routine:
Spread'em! I scream over the musics Doomsday!

Doomsday! Look at this human face!

Goddamn it, man!... I only made it up
for your sake, you sorry--    

              But he's too busy
throwing all my dear future friends
out th'Past's windows & hey! this's no game any more
Come on, you guys, tell him you ain't
corpses--or he's gonna throw ya
into th'ditches & fill'em up with dirt!

believe me! (I've seen it done
before, many times) & yet I well know
these fools: They only pay attention to art!

art only!
It's their lives!
(can you believe it!)
they are all dead serious artists
down to th'last one of'em
making their musics Doomsday!

Doomsday! they'll all end up
in th'ditches Someday--Come & watch it!
(th'smart cookies'll print
twice th'number of tickets as

... will stand by ardently
perhaps, but will only watch
dramatically) while
whistling as he works, Th'Man
will turn theatrically) & say

Ya'know some'n, buddy,
these dummies of you're really heavy
heavy, man, &

as I've been doing this
all my life

       ... I'll
take a really deep
bow, deep bow



& split --