Paterson

What do I want in these rooms papered with visions of money?

How much can I make by cutting my hair? If I put new heels on my shoes

bathe my body reeking of masturbation and sweat, layer upon later

excrement

dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways, statistical cubicles, factory

stairways,

cloakrooms of the smiling gods of psychiatry;

if in antechambers I face the presumption of department store supervisory

employees,

old clerks in their asylums of fat, the slobs, and dumbbells of the ego with

money and power

to hire and fire and make and break and fart and justify their reality of wrath

and rumor of wrath to wrath-weary man,

what war I enter and for what a prize! The dead prick of commonplace

obsession,

harridan vision of electricity at night and daylight misery of thumb-sucking

rage.

 

I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping

in my veins

eyes and ears full of marijuana,

eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border

or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman;

rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun;

rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati;

rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies;

rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los

Angeles, raised up to die in Denver,

pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and

Resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain,

come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage,

streetcorner Evangel in front of City Hall, surrounded by statues of agonized

lions,

with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp,

screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, an-

nihilating reality,

screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of

the world,

blood streaming from my belly and shoulders

 

flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and

highways

by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones

hanging on the trees.

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