Doing Plan 9 From Outer Space



Plan 9 From Outer Space (1956)

Some days—start off bad
And they—just get worse & worse
Like a really bad—Ed Wood Jr. movie

Things start out okay—even perfect
Like Orson Welles—and Kane
Perfectly in control—every facet

But then—things collapse
The whole day’s filming—crashes
How to salvage—one’s life from wreckage?

Life as—motion picture technique
A textbook demonstration—of failure
How autobiography—becomes camp

One sad scene—Bela Lugosi
Standing outside—his dumpy home
Yet still there’s this—campy nostalgia

Probably because—Bela’s soon dead
Sticking Eddie with—a couple of scenes
How to salvage them—into a movie?

That’s how Plan9—turns ‘50s camp
A space-alien story—zombie sci-fi flick
Night of the Living—Hollywood Dead

Wood’s new script—beyond the beyond
Beginning with—ludicrous flying saucers
Dangling in space—pie-plates from wires

Hit the “rewind” button—again & again
Police car with tail-fins—leave crime scenes
But no tail-fins—when they arrive

Military commanders—cast shadows
Across the so-called—blue sky above
Tacky cinematography—out of control

Pentagon offices—change overnight
Santa Fe Railroad—tourist maps
Come and go—on the dreary walls

Ed Woods Jr.—the story of my life
Mix of professional—semiprofessional
Amateur & non-existent—schmaltz

How to ad lib—and improvise
The worst script—and film possible
With a little gay—impromptu class?

Tor Johnson—from Bride of the Monster
Playing the mute brute—Lobo my love
If only he would keep—his mouth shut!!!

Lyle Talbot—never turning down a role
A reliable character actor—from Jailbait
Steve Reeves hot stuff—just ask Lyle

Western star—and drinking buddy
Tom Keene—rumored to be Hollywood’s
Most well-endowed—Grade-B actor

Grisly Criswell—bow-tied Mystic
La La Land’s favorite—narrating the
Story as it unfolds—or rather unravels

Vampira—friend of moody James Dean
Supreme television—Horror-Film Hostess
Glides through The Darkness—as usual

John Breckinridge—the Alien Leader
Swishes around—flaunting her Plan 9
Dudley Manlove—hammy lieutenant

And of course—dead Bela Lugosi
Billed as “Ghoul Man”—in the credits
His role left over—from original movie

What to do with Bela—dead of course
Deader than usual—deader than Dracula
What to do with—miscellaneous footage?

Wood needed Bela—even when dead
To complete his—aborted vampire epic
Using a double—cape covering face

Like me—Ed Woods had shortcomings
Teen exploitation—and drive-in flicks
Movies like—Plan 9 From Outer Space

Cleaving Angora



Queen of Angora


It isn’t easy—being Queen for a Day
Just ask Dolores Fuller—or Jack Bailey
Get out that “applause meter”—pronto
Queens for a Day—they’re dime a dozen

I ran away from home—for my boyfriend
He was butch & handsome—in construction
But awfully jealous—afraid of losing me
Voluptuous me—always chaperoned

His mother lived—in San Dimas
A Los Angels suburb—I got tickets and
Talked her into—going with me to see
Queen for Day—a fabulous TV show

It was my ultimate—guilty pleasure
To see all the women—tell their tacky
Sob stories—to watch the audience
Vote for the best—hard luck story

Jack Bailey—was the perfect host
Giving down and out—housewives
What they desired—and needed
Like me—and gave me a TV job

I worked my way up—Red Skelton
The Dinah Shore Show—even the
Oscar winning—Mesa of Lost Women
Plus—Beast from 20,000 Fathoms!!!

Me & my girlfriend—Mona McKinnon
Starred in—Plan 9 From Outer Space
And Jailbait—in Mesa of Lost Women
We wore—long metal fingernails…

The maddening—guitar/piano scores
For both Jailbait—and Mesa were free
Soundman Charlie Clemmons—used
Them—they were public domain.

Cat Women of the Moon—scandalous
But not as bad as—Body Beautiful
I had lots of Cleavage—back then
Kept the wardrobe guy—awfully busy.

Fritz Lang’s—The Blue Gardenia
One of my favorites—Anne Baxter
And Richard Conte—Nat King Cole
Future Superman—George Reeves

Fred MacMurray—gave me advice
In the western—The Moonlighter with
Barbara Stanwyck—telling me don’t
Telegraph—too much with my eyes…

Eddie Wood’s—beautiful green eyes
Couldn’t believe—he was a Hollywood
Writer, Producer, Director—all in one
“I’m gonna make you a star!” he said.

Glen or Glenda—his coming-out flick
Bela and I—were both Hungarian
I fixed him goulash—we loved Eddie
No matter what—even in drag!!!

Being transvestite—wasn’t easy
Especially back then—it was lots
More than just—angora sweaters
Overcoming—the McCarthy Era!!!

Bride of the Monster—made bucks
But Sam Arkoff—glommed onto it
American International—got born
Eddie launched—Arkoff’s career

Later when—Eddie’s drinking
Went on the upswing—I got into
Writing Elvis Presley—songs in
The Sixties—as Dee Fuller

I sold—a million copies
My song—“Rock-A-Hula Baby”
On the flip-side of Blue Hawaii’s
“I Can’t Help—Falling in Love.”

During my long—music career
I kept up some—low-key acting
Doing some—lounge shows for
The casinos—in Las Vegas

Eddie died—without finishing
His life work—the dreams he
Carried were—hardly begun
Songs in his heart—unsung…



Cleaving End of a Genre



Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948)


Funny how horror—ends up as comedy
Universal’s classic—monster cycle movies
Climaxing with—campy Abbott and Costello’s
Best Horror Comedy Flick—ever made

Universal had exploited—the horror genre
All through the ‘30s—and early ‘40s with
Monsterfests galore—Dracula, Frankenstein
The Wolf Man, The Mummy, The Invisible Man

Postwar monsters—plus Abbott and Costello
Seemed tired—and burned out though until
Producer Robert Arthur’s clever notion of
Camping it up with—cartoonish excesses.

House of Frankenstein (1944)—already
Started the process—along with tres outré
House of Dracula (1945)—utramodern
Dystopian science—needed new monsters

Haunted houses—weren’t scary anymore
Not after Europe & Hiroshima—lost everything
McDougal’s Spook House—House of Horrors?
Nothing was left—except campy nostalgia

The same film noir—melodramatic lighting
Adds to Glen Strange’s—sullen goodbye
Bella Lugosi as usual—Balkan & moody
Lon Chaney Jr.—hysterically Wolf Man

Jane Randolph—shows up in fog-shrouded
Bayou Castle—saves Abbott and Costello
From a fate worse than death—seduction
By Dr. Mornay—Dracula’s sultry assistant

The climax—to the movie & genre era
A huge bitch fight—amongst old friends
What a campy way—to say goodbye
Both scary—and exquisitely gay

Worshipping Ed Wood Jr.



Bride of the Monster (1955)

The Atom never sleeps—
Everything’s—forever
Bad movies—never end
Bela Lugosi—my Master!!!

Mad—Scientists
They come—and go
Vornoff—Pretorius…
Looking for—young Brides

Bride—of the Atom
The Atomic—Monsters
Bad movies—need good titles
Boy-Bride—of the Monster!!!

Bela-Lugosi—Prince of Darkness!!!
How I worshipped him—like a god
How many boyz—from Transylvania
Wanted to be his—Boy Bride!!!

Bela plays—Herr Doktor Vornoff
Mad scientist—in the Swamp
He lives with—Tor Johnson
“Lobo”—Heavenly Heavy

Bride of—the Monster
More campy—than Dracula
More horrifying—than Frankenstein
It’s a classic—camp Shocker!!!

Tony McCoy—cute but dumb
Too bad he can’t act—but so what?
Shirtless—always at a loss for words
Struggling with Tor—throughout the film

Tony’s father—financed it all
Almost went broke—doing it
He owned—a meat packing plant
Wanted his son—to be a movie star

We steal—the Octopus
From the attic—of Republic Studios
We lose a Tentacle—long & lanky
Getting it—outta there

It was a—famous Octopus
From an old—John Wayne movie
Wake of the Red Witch—a loser
Kinky Octopus—movie poster

The air compressor—goes kaput
I forget—did we leave it there?
Anyway—the Octopus leaks
And goes limp—like a flat tire

Lobo and Lugosi—
Get down—in the Pond
Our fake lake—in Griffith Park
Lugosi almost—gets pneumonia

The Octopus scene—pretty lame
Tor Johnson—wrestles with it
Those limp—ridiculous Tentacles
So “sucker” schmaltzy!!!

The cars—such ‘50s classics!!!
Old Nash Ramblers—Studebakers
Funky grills—lots of flashy chrome
Driving up & down—Hollywood Blvd

“Home?”—I have no Home!!!”
I can just see it—in Eddie’s eyes
Ed Wood Jr.—he loved Bela Lugosi
Jack Daniels—kept them both going.

Eddie writes—Bride of the Monster
For one person—Bela Lugosi
He writes it—every Line of it
Camp classic—maudlin dialogs:

“Home?—I have no Home!!!
Haunted in Hungary—despised here.
Living all the time—like an Animal.
The Jungle—is my Home.
But I will—show the World!!!
That I can be—its Master!!!
I will perfect—my new Monster.
A race of them—Filmic Supermen.
And they will—conquer Hollywood!!!”

Loretta King—Delores Fuller
Beautiful Brides—of Bela’s Monster
But I was—the real Child Bride
Just ask Lobo—my Big Lover!!!


Eddie gives—away the Secret
In my dreams—and in my ears
Whispering—his Script for me
Ménage-a-trois—Bela, Lobo, me

Without words—without demands
A Boy—and his Boyfriend Monster
We kissed—moved forward in Time
Plan 9 From Outer Space!!!

I’ve got—the Director’s cuts—
Bela & Eddie—often on my mind
As I watch—Orgy of the Dead
Glen—or Glenda!!!

I press—my changer—
I slow-mo—the Video Veil
Again Boy-Bride—Monster mine!!!
Caught up in—Lobo’s big arms

Sweet and sad—Bijou Blues
Overwhelmed—by Jailbait
Feeling up Steve Reeves—squeezing
Him tight—Lye Talbot’s aghast!!!

Ed Wood Jr.—smiles again
He’s feeling—young again
A Norma Desmond—comeback?
Lobo—gets me in the Balcony…

Knock, knock—Who’s there?
Me I say—it’s me becoming you
Such a weird—pronominal funk
Becoming—a bride again…

Lobo holds—me tight again
Within his—huge monster arms
I hear it—Orchid Saxophones
In my ears—playing again

I can’t forget—Bela’s cigars
Big long thick—expensive Havana’s
Taking—a nice long exquisite Puff
Happy to be—Acting Again!!!

How long—how long ago—
The Paramount—all the theaters
The flood of images—we released
Rising clouds—Hollywood flicks!!!

Waking up—Marcel Proust
Full of Lugosi—Lost Knowledge
Eddie’s really—The Wizard of Oz
And I’m lost—without him

Cinema—speaks in Tongues
So do Hollywood’s—best Directors
Rays of Light—shining bright
The Screen—The Screen!!!

Monster Love—Bride of the Atom
Most perfect couple—of the Mall
Both of us—Academy Award winners
Oscars—in the Parking Lot!!!
Hollywood—gets born again
The Bijou—The Egyptian!!!

Night of the Living Dead—
Midnight movies—The Neptune!!!
Oh Barbara—Oh Barbara!!!
We’re coming—to get you!!!

Who needs—Cecile B. DeMille?
All those—sword & sandal classics?
All I need is—Lobo’s tight embrace
Boy-Bride again—of the Monster!!!

A single Ray—from Eddie’s Eye
The Bliss of—Nightmare Ecstasy
Incomprehensible—even today
Bijou matinee—déjà vu




Dishing Joan Crawford



Son of Mommy Dearest (2009)

Christopher: “There's a liquor store to the right.”
Joan Crawford: “I should've known you'd know where to find the boys and the booze.”

You’ve all heard about it and seen the movie by now. The sad sordid story of Mommy Dearest. You know the one—the tacky memoir of my sister Christina Crawford. The biggest-selling one in the history of American publishing—with more than 50 million copies sold in hardback alone.

Heard about the Mommy Dearest “No Wire Coat Hanger” Treatment? Well, honey, who hasn’t. But what most people don’t know is that—Christina wasn’t the only one to go through Hell in the Closet.

Let me tell you something, baby. It HURT!!! Oh yeah, it HURT BAD!!! It Hurt So BAD—it Hurt GOOD!!! You know what I mean, baby?

That’s how I WANTED it to be—Mommy Dearest spanking me GOOD!!! Oh yeah—O-U-C-H!!! I was Bad Boy—I was a Bad Boy real GOOD!!! I liked it—Oh how Mommy Hurt me so—and Mommy Dearest knew the Truth. She knew it HURT really BAD—and she KNEW I liked it THAT way!!!

Ever since then, baby—I be S/M Queen!!!

All because Mommy Dearest—she understood me. Every weekend—I got spanked real good. My walk-in closet—designed just for ME!!! Lots of heavy-metal SM chains and razor-thin coat hangers!!! My cute little bubble-butt—wanting it all the time!!! Your Love—Will Never Change!!!

SPANK ME MOMMY!!! SPANK ME GOOD!!!

All these years later—getting down, baby. Playing Jimmy “Bo” Horne’s “Spank”—getting my girlfriend Cherise to SPANK me all night long. C’mon, get that Strap-on Dildo going, girl!!! Your Love will never Change—Your Love, Your Love is always Right!!!

Cherise be pouty?—My skanky boyfriend Denzel comes over for the Weekend. Him and his boyfriend Tyrone—from the Catfish Lounge, baby!!! They be Bad Boyz—they know how to BE BAD Good!!! Denzel likes the Remix version—all three of us dancing to “Spank Me Harder Remix”!!! You know what I mean?

Denzel and Tyrone—no BAD REVIEWS from those guyz. Their kind of Love—just doesn’t Stop!!! They show up—armed with Ajax and extra wire hangers. For our stylish Special Version—Little Rocky Horror Picture Show!!! Oh Man!!! My Closet gets down—Tasers and Spic ‘n’ Span, baby!!!

Paramount and Christina’s new found Notoriety—they make millions, honey. They start billing me next—as Son of Mommy Dearest!!! I go Camp Classic overnight—Christopher Crawford Esquire!!! TV and Radio proclaiming—"Meet the Biggest CLOSET CASE of them all!"

Mommy Dearest—she’d come home from MGM at night. “Wire hangers!!! What's wire hangers doing in your closet when I told you, Christopher—No wire hangers EVER? I work and work 'till I'm half-dead—and I hear people saying, "She's getting old." And what do I get? A son—who cares about the beautiful clothes I give him... about as much as he cares about me!!!”

“What's wire hangers doing in your closet? Answer me!!! I buy you beautiful things—and you treat them like trashy dishrags. You do!!! Three hundred dollar slacks—on a wire hanger!!! We'll see how many more you’ve got—they're hidden somewhere here in your closet!!! We'll see!!! We'll see!!! Get out of that bed!!!”

“You too Denzel—outta here!!!!. And no more—Tyrone either!!! You know—all three of you know!!! It isn’t right—Your love just isn’t right!!! Your Love!!! Your Love!!! My white trash son—my no-good daughter!!! Get down—on your knees, Christopher!!! We're gonna see—just how much you love wire hangers!!! You've got your closet—full of them!!! Wire hangers, why? Why?”

“Christina, get out of that bed!!! Come see your brother—how Christopher has shamed me!!! Get out of that bed, Christopher—You live in the most beautiful house in Brentwood!!! And you don't care if your clothes—get all stretched out!!! Look at this room—it like some two-dollar-a-week furnished room back in Okalahoma City!!! Get down!!! Get down!!! I’m going to—Spank you good, honey!!! Get down, baby—go on get down!!!”

I make the sweep—with my Movie and Book!!! The Golden Raspberry (RAZZIE) Awards—all mine!!! I win all nine—Dis-Honors nominations!!!

My favorite scene gets deleted—the “Runaway Boy” scene. It’s during the filming—of the notorious wire hanger tantrum scene. I run away from home—and Mommy Dearest goes out cruising for me in her car. Her wild beady Eyes—twisting her neck down dark alleys!!! All these classic Cadillac convertibles—cruising up & down Brentwood mansions!!!

It caused a big stir in Hollywood—word got around fast. Pretty soon—I was Hot Stuff!!! Suddenly famous Beverly Hills fag hags—Barbra Streisand and Faye Dunaway were after me!!!

I started spending long weekends—hiding away. Lollygagging around the pool—with James Whale and his cute boyfriends. Over on 788 South Amalfi Drive—there in Pacific Palisades. Oh honey, all those nude young guyz—from UCLA and Stanford!!! Looking for a cute—loose Bride of Frankenstein!!!

Franco Zeffirelli wanted to direct my film—but Christina and I hated his vision of Joan as glamorous Hollywood martyr. She wasn’t Hollywood martyr at all—she made a martyr of us all!!!

I went for the best—Luchino Visconti!!! I wanted Alain Delon—loved him in Purple Noon. Visconti called—decadence and Joan Crawford’s son appealed to him. I flew to Rome—Visconti mentioned The Leopard. The slow and deliberate rhythm and waning—of my mother’s Hollywood career.

Like the noble Fabrizio Corbero, Prince of Salina—her life corresponding to the rise and fall from eminence of an enormously wealthy Italian aristocratic family...


Dishing Douchebag Divas



Most Vile Show Biz Mom

“Nobody is born a show-biz Mom;
unless they happen to be in show-biz.”
—Madame Madupont

http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,30.msg143749.html#msg143749


Speaking of double-bagger douchebags, my dearest Maude and Harriett, I simply must share with you a teensy-weensy little bit of Hollywood Confidential gossip about something tremendously important and germane to the Academy Awards with both of you lovely cinematic cognoscente queen bees.

Well, last night I just happened to be schmoozing with the daughter of one of my several West Coast nieces who just happen to be prominent Hollywood actresses known for their connections with the usual Palm Springs Rich and Famous People whom of course I’m sure you already know.

I’m especially fond of my youngest niece who was wonderful friends with Billy Wilder back in the Fifties. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but she appears in that infamous risque “cut” party scene with William Holden in Sunset Boulevard—you know the one? It caused quite a scandal but naturally Billy had it covered up rather quickly and discretely.

Naturally, I have a rare and extremely valuable copy of the unexpurgated version of Sunset Boulevard. This “uncut” version—the movie that is, not handsome William Holden, of course—takes place in a dingy dark dirty rather ill-lit depressing men’s room during one of Holden’s rare getaways from the greedy gigolo-starved douchebag clutches of Norma Desmond.

Norma is waiting impatiently outside in her sleek but somewhat dated limo driven by what’s his name. Naturally she’s jealous and suicidal again—playing the poor distraught douchebag diva on the way back to fame and fortune with Holden rewriting her salacious suggestive inept Salome film script.

“So you’re Norma Desmond?” asks Holden when he meets the Old Bag Gloria Swanson for the first time. With the loving help and guidance of Cecil B. De Mille, Swanson had turned her ambition into the usual Tinsel Town Reality. By the time Gloria was 24, working for Paramount, she was known by the public as the “Queen of the Scream” and was receiving 10,000 fan letters a week.

Meanwhile, the cinema bosses called Swanson the “Mortgage Lifter”—all they had to do was put her name on the billing outside, they said, and the money would roll in. She was the “Queen of Hollywood”—for a century or two.

Forgive my dears, but I simply couldn’t help myself tonight—ever so briefly and discretely taking this tiny little detour into Hollywood Naughty Nostalgiaville and sharing with you the simply fascinating comparisons I find between these two lovely Douchebag Divas: Joan “Dearest Mommy” Crawford and Gloria “Sunset Boulevard” Swanson.

How lucky we are to get to know the Real Dirt about these Show Biz Moms in all their inspiring and problematic cinematic complexity.

Who else but these poor innocent wayward Hollywood Children of the Living Dead—would be able to share with us all the charming yet sometimes terrifying first-hand retrospective accounts of such Mommy Dearest ogling-Eyeball Narratives?

Who else but the Bad Seed offspring of these two Douchebag Divas could opine so eloquently with their shameless Tell-All Autobiographies—the Truth, the Tacky Truth, the obscene obsequious “Magic Realist” Truth of Hollywood Babylon then and now?


Surely, my dears, we need to cherish these precious Douchebag Divas from decades past—to prepare us for even better Divas yet to come? Douchebag Divas who will stalk the Campy Crypt of Bijou Wonder—through the Magic of Netflix Netherworld Naughty Evenings in front of our comfy Flat Screen Home Entertainment Centers all across America Movie Land?

Dishing Douchebag Divas




Double-Bagger Douchebag Divas
"... if there's such thing as a
double-bagger douchebag,
he is definitely it."


http://forums.escapefromelba.com/index.php/topic,30.msg143853.html#msg143853
Well, Harriet, continuing the usual tacky post-Oscar put-downs from Vaudeville-Maudeville, I must say, my dear, that I’ve seen quite a few Double-Bagger Douchebag movies in my time—but there’s still one movie out there that’s even worse than that.

And that’s the classic Triple-Bagger Douchebag movie that I’m sure you’ve seen so many times like the rest of us diligent moviegoers—and that’s Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (1962).

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane has got to be up there in the all time Triple-Bagger Douchebag Top Ten with 3 of my most favorite stunning Douchebag Divas:

Betty Davis, of course, as the charming but troubled Old Bag Child Star Baby Jane Hudson conniving her Big Come Back like so many Old Bags do. One thinks of the lovely Norma Desmond—Gloria Swanson combo who in real life are almost as inseparable as Ma and Inca:

“Each night during the filming of Sunset Boulevard, Gloria Swanson would return to the rented house on Mulholland Drive she shared with her mother, Addie and the youngest of her three children, Michelle, then 16. As the 50-year-old actress swept into the grounds, Addie would turn to her granddaughter and say, 'Oh, here comes Norma', a reference to Swanson's role as the half-insane former silent star in Billy Wilder's film. 'After each day's shooting, she carried on talking in the voice of Norma Desmond,' remembers Michelle Farmer-Amon, now 70, 'and she stayed in that personnage for the duration of work on the movie.'”—Andrew Wilson, “Living with Norma Desmond,” The Observer, Sunday 9 March 2003

http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2003/mar/09/features.review2

Yes, Hariett, then there’s Blanche Hudson. Poor Blanche played by Joan Crawford the cheesy wheelchair-bound kvetching La La Land Whiner—at her helpless broken-wing best. You know the type? Limping and gimping her way through the movie—appealing to the Sympathy Vote. Constantly abused, tortured and endlessly dished by her Evil Sister, poor Blanche. Does Blanche deserve such tacky treatment?

Yes, there’s Bette Davis and Joan Crawford—but then to complete the lovely ménage-a-trois there’s charming Victor Buono as Edwin Fagg—that infamous most smarmy Douchebag Fat Boy of Hollywood caught up in the cloying campy clutches of the Blanche-Baby Jane soap-opera.

Supposedly a Hollywood agent, Buono wiggles and squirms his way through Baby Jane Hudson’s once-famous but now ridiculously saccharine performance of "I've Written a Letter to Daddy"—talk about douchebag diva.

Sound familiar? It should—it’s exactly like the love letter to Big Daddy that Sylvia Plath seals with a kiss and mails to heaven—with her head in the oven.

Cleaving Neil Cassady









The Last Third

“Americanist minute particulars”
—Allen Ginsberg, The Visions of
The Great Remember—Letters by
Neal Cassady

Sitting, waiting, meditating—these are things

I could never do—I had to be on the road
But now I’m entering—The Last Third
Of my earthy meat-reality—existence
February 3, 1968—four days short of my
Forty-second birthday by a dingy Mexican
Railroad track—San Miguel de Allende
I’m found unconscious—lying here
Next to the track—in the morning
Alone as usual—the only way to go

My First Third—full of Denver doldrums
Boyhood ashes now—all ashes again
My bulging baseball—swollen biceps
How Ginsberg loved—too feel me up
He liked my asshole too—his queer
Lips annealed to—my silken skin
My high school thick—adolescent
Prolix pubes—plus uncut cock tip
All ashes now—my flat hard stomach
Belly button—convict Venus torso

Entering Denver dharma—again
Burned out and used up—by America
Returning to Colfax—no more fast cars
So much for Howl—15-minutes of fame
No more windshields—full of tears
No more—thin Gene Autrey waist
For beautiful chicks—to wrap around
No more nipples—to get erect
No more coast-to-coast—mad trips
No more Green Automobile—elegies

Neil Cassady—Bildungsroman

“Cassady was the energy
of the archetypal West,
the energy of the frontier,
still coming down. Cassady
is the cowboy crashing”
—Gary Snyder

Remembering—back then
Never asking—never finding out
Boyish déjà vu—eternal watchfulness
My father—an alcoholic barber
Next door a movie house—one of
Denver’s worst dives—catering to
Poor clientele—mostly Westerns
Scumbag Grade B—Tim McCoy
Dumpy Bijou—next to barber shop
Sitting in the filth—movie darkness

Watching Hollywood’s—magic show
Most of the day—killing time watching
Same scenes—over and over again
Immersed in—indescribable stench
Waiting for my father—to get off work
Zara’s overpowering—stink of things
Aftershave lotions—colognes
The Great Stink—its many nuances
Odorous—discomforting for a kid
Vivid Western—horse-operas

Sometimes movies—more lurid
A few of them—unforgettable
“King Kong”—“Son of Kong”
All those—slinky skanky dinosaurs
Still embedded in—Colorado shale
Hungry brontosauruses—chasing sailors
Skull Island—full of nasty surprises
Pterodactyls—swooping away girlfriends
Faye Wray the Screamer—stalked by
A Giant Ape—Empire State Bldg rape!!!

Sing-song—dirty boyish limericks
Reptilian—adolescent sexual desires
King Kong—plays Ping Pong with his
Simply huge—monstrous Ding Dong
Making me self-conscious—of myself
Already hustled—by Colfax queens
Priests and—high school teachers
Taking more than—a literary interest
In my goodlooks—lanky cowboy legs
Always in and out—of trouble


Neil Cassady—Literary Autobiography

“Restlessness then poetry
subdued with words thought”
—Neil Cassady, The First Third

Naturally—movies got me
Reading—into deeper excursions
Beyond Bijou westerns—reading
The Invisible Man—opening up my
Imagination—influencing my
Daydreaming powers—until images
Were all suffocated—beneath
The ebb and flow—of Literature
Springing forth—perusing its
Gleaming—insatiable solitudes

Books quizzical—adolescent
Overcoming the—indecision of
My drunk father—who gave up
Evading anything—positive
Avoiding any—commitments
While paradoxically—books
Did the same thing—except
Words even more—evasive
Refusing to—clarify anything
Other then—detouring me

But it was—an adroit detour
An instance—of killing time
Thru intellectual—hesitancy
My acceptance—of myself
Wanting to be—like Proust
An old Tea Head—of time
Restlessness—deep inside me
Driving it—like a stolen car
As long—as I could without
Touching—the brakes

Cleaving Allen Ginsberg



Thoughts On Not Breathing
—for Allen Ginsberg

I stopped breathing—held my breath, let the Red Sky scudding night pass over me, over Skyway, over the Red Cliff, over Rainier Avenue…

I stopped breathing—closed my eyes, held my breath, letting my Third Eye glide over the love shack, old bungalow down by the beach, dumpy cabana down by the rotting dock, out over the Lake cloaked in the Night of the Living Dead…

I stopped everything— Klaatu barada nikto, sick of breathing in & out, sick of thinking thoughts going around and around in my head, sick of my broken-record existence, the same old regrets, boyfriend worries, memories inside the mirrored closet of my mind…

I was sick of poetry—especially that prick Ed Dorn, sick of cowboy macho, calling me faggy fatuous, unable to breathe fire and brimstone like a man, unable to grab an audience by the balls, inspire the hot black anger inside the mob, finesse them with the dagger of white cool bliss, down in the basement of the Elliott Bay Bookstore, enough to sell a pile of crummy books and entertain some nervous pimply-faced students from the University of a Thousand Tears…

I finished the reading—took the best-looking one home with me—took him for a ride in my boat, sleek 19’ Bayliner speedboat, let him drive it nude, standing up catching the summer air off the lake, slicing through whitecaps, zipping around Mercer Island, stopping in Andrews Bay for a tall cool one, leaning back and enjoying the starry night sky, the Seward Park skyline, jagged cedars, gnarled madrona, scraggly Douglas fir, mixed with the sexy smell of the fish-hatchery up past the waterfall, nothing was forbidden out on the lake at midnight…


Thoughts on Breathing
—for Allen Ginsberg

Cars speeding by fast—Rainier Avenue South rush-hour traffic, trees stripped naked February cold, Boeing jet-city denizens, past the Why? Grocery, past the Renton airport, Red Cliff staring down at me, shooting baskets in Lakeside Park…

Seagulls with bent wings—curved like sleek Stukas, checking out the Sturtevant beaches, keen-eyed for dead salmon, for garbage and flotsam, for used prophylactics floating like limp balloons in the shallows under the dock, the Crow Clan flying over from Dead Horse Canyon, waking up to dawn over Cascadian Eastside condos, fog creeping thru carefully manicured backyards, suburban ennui…

Oh Walt Whitman—you put your queer shoulder to the Wheel, you knew the young laborers, the sexually intelligent young Union and Confederate soldiers, the ones that greased the axles of Capitalism, not yet dumbed down by hallucinated Beltway fascist types like Kissinger and Nixon, not yet sucked into the skanky orbits of steel barons, railroad barons, oil barons, not yet breathing in the Samsara smog of Generalissimo jive and Klingon knitted brows, contemplating Apocalypto for dingy Domino City…



Cleaving Allen Ginsberg



Deep Breaths
—for Harvey Milk & George Moscone

Thus crosslegged—on a big round boulder
Sitting by the Carbon River—below Mount Rainier
Breathing in and out—the fresh mountain air
Breathing further—leaving behind Seattle
Past Capitol Hill, Rainier Beach—Volunteer Park
Glad to be sitting alone—in the Pacific Northwest
Far away from busy San Francisco—Japantown
Away from fast-paced—El Camino Real Syndrome
Sitting by Chenuis Falls—centering myself
Listening to the waterfall—crashing down thru
Ancient cedar temples—queer dharma alive


Why She Meditates
—for Allen Ginsberg

She sits because Big Daddy—was a Dadaist.
He helped her write Ariel—her head in the oven.
She sits because Mommy Dearest—was a Surrealist.
She used coat-hangers—to inspire new poetry.
She sits because—she’s flummoxed and frustrated.
She doesn’t know what to do—with Peter Orlovsky.
She sits because—Buddha visited New York City.
Unfortunately he jumped off—the Brooklyn Bridge.
She sits because—Jack Kerouac was so goodlooking.
And Neil Cassady—had a nice big thick 12 inches.
She sits because—Senator Craig was an Imagist.
That Minneapolis airport bathroom peep-hole!!!
She sits because—that’s what Paul Verlaine did.
After Rimbaud ditched him—what else but Absinthe?
She sits because—a boy at Naropa in Boulder is hot.
His armpits ooze pheromones—that just won’t quit!!!
She sits because—queer dharma turns her on.
Bashō was a badboy—Rexroth catted around.

Thoughts Sitting Breathing
—for Allen Ginsberg

OM—The pride of a pretty boy in my apartment in Boulder nude beneath the moody Flatirons leaning down over us as we meditate on his mysterious tight round pink as yet to be enlightened Buddha asshole quivering in the evening campus breezes…

MA—How jealous the million Milky Way myrmidons overhead trying to restrain themselves from throwing fits on their high Space Command thrones lusting after the pink tender-pricked kid who’s in love with me and wants to stretch out on the bed and have me recite the juicy parts of Howl about Neil…

PA—Imperceptive Tadzio youth becoming more aware of this power over men, boyish Ganymende Cupbearer melding with Antinous once again, his dark Hadrionic curls wreathing the kid’s damp forehead when I put the book down and…

DMI—Alone in misery, gimme a cigarette, they destroyed my city, got no rupee for rice, ain’t got no oil left, they sucked us dry, the tanks got my parents, the Gaza Strip gone, I got hunger in my gland, get me outta here, worms are crawling thru me, I’m dying in death city…

MA—Sit down crosslegged and relax, give it all away, let poetry bliss prevail, no need to storm Heaven, give up let Angels alone, they don’t exist anyway, let the light of ashes shine, Neal sublimed into Mexico railroad track dawn, Jack into Desolation Peak silence…
******
*****
****
***
**
*
HŪM—the Crown of American Emptiness, Wall Street Bankers, Beltway Lobbyists, Pentagon Vandals of the Void, melting away into Causeless Bliss, Las Vegas gangster lovers escaping town quick, everybody’s been fucked, died and gone to heaven, let your cute anus blow your young animal trumpet, let your tight teenage asshole relax its divine Sphincterhood, shit out your hate and loosen the void, let all hell’s legions fall thru space, loosen the bowels of the Beltway, let the crap of Dharmakaya do its thing!!!


Cleaving Nijinsky



Moonviewing Party

“orchid breathing / incense
into / butterfly wings”—basho


moon-viewing—thru clouds
cloud shadows—scudding down low
thru the—high whitecaps


Cleaving Edo



Edo Morning

“it’s really easy—
the art of giving
things up”
—Elizabeth Bishop

a cup—of coffee
cormorants—gliding by dock
death in the—cherry trees


Cleaving the Palace Library



The Palace Library

“myself—
monopolizes
me”—tom clausen


swept away—the books
yet in an—alcove corner
a Gobi Desert




Cleaving Fu Manchu



Fu Manchu haiku

I escape—again
me and—my exiled lover
young—Fu Manchu

Cleaving Kyoto



Kyoto Boyfriend

“If not now—when?”—Rinzai

clean air is okay—
kyoto muse is fine but
I want New Edo

Cleaving buson



The Young Prince

“with no underrobes
bare butt suddenly
exposed a gust of
spring wind”
—Buson, translated
by Sam Hamill & J. P. Seaton,
The Poetry of Zen, Boston:
Shambhala, 2004, page 157.


how quickly—I move
when my toilet—is chilly
beneath—the cedars



Cleaving bashō



Political Haiku

“at midnight under
the bright moon a
secret worm digs
into a chestnut”
—bashō

galloping—gobsmacks
there’s a secret—worm inside
my little—pea-brain

Cleaving Vichyssoise



Vichyssoise

we’re born—to die
we come and go—like ships
ghost ships passing—in the night

we come—into this world
alone—and buck-naked, baby
we leave—the same way

in between—we’re alone
even with lovers—we’re alone
but all of us—in the same boat?

it doesn’t—make sense
every day—a ship of fools
every night—titanic deja-vu

each day—vichyssoise
best served cold—dontchaknow
death for me—soup du jour…



Cleaving Sylvia Plath



Douchebag Daddy’s Girl
—for Sylvia Plath

You don’t douche, you don’t douche
Any more, Daddy’s Little Girl—
Daddy’s dead like an old black shoe
All those years catting around—
Doing it on the Library Floor…

Dirty Douchebag Daddy
You died before you even died—
Full of Shit, Bag of Hot Air,
Grisly Old Prick with one big
Old Princeton IOU

Douchebag Daddy’s girl—
Dragged by Rexroth Daddy-O
From the Cow Pastures of mean
Old Minnesota to Santa Barbara
Looking for a little Tenure

Douchebag Daddy’s 4 Wives—
How they all Failed you Bad
The Third One sick of you
Ditching you for a young
Handsome New Mexico Poet

Douchebag Daddy’s Girl—
They say your Daddy had
Dozens of Blonde Blue-Eyed
Girlfriends on the side only
Too ready to Tongue the Root

Mean Old Douchebag Daddy—
How he hated the Beatniks so
Horning in on the Action with
Their Booze, Dope and North
Beach Tacky Sex Orgies
****************
There goes Sapphic beauty—
Down the ugly Douchebag drain
All the queer Greek and Roman
Classics like campy Catullus and
Sextus Propertius the Prick…

Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso—
Illiterate East Coast Pretenders
To the Throne of Dame Poesy…
How you hated all those Brutes
Douchebag Daddy-O…

Your San Francisco Haunts—
Invaded by dirty Hippies next
Brainless denizens and children
Of the Suburban Night of the
Living Douchebag Dead…

So, Douchebag Daddy-O—
They pulled you out of the Sack
And put you through the old
Rack and Screw Routine down in
The Dungeon of Edgar Allan Poe

They pulled out your Chain—
Like a telephone cord by the Root,
They rattled your Bourgeois Cage
Bad enough to make Rilke’s Panther
Addicted to Prozac and Madness

UCLA hated your guts, Daddy-O—
Gave you one more year after the
Ungrateful antiwar scummy drop-outs
Burned to the ground the Temple of
Their Success—The Bank of America

America drove a Big Black Stake—
Through your fat old IWW Commie
Black Heart, Douchebag Daddy-O,
The Villagers never much liking you
Vampire Poets very much anyway

Faggy bloodsucker Whitman—
Molesting all those cute vulnerable
Union soldier boys, Grungy Ginsberg
Sucking off Neil Cassady and then
Bragging about it in awful HOWL…

Ferlinghetti making it worse—
With City Lights Bookstore and all
Those nice little Pocket Book Series
Poetry chapbooks, so garish, vain,
Sarcastic and disgustingly lewd!!!

There you were Douchebag Girl—
Not exactly the place for a nice
Little Emily Dickinson type like you,
Your pussy full of canonical resurgent
Feminist Douchebag Propaganda…

Full of poisonous Big Daddy hate—
Campy caricatures of George Grosz…
Distorted smirk of Weimar cabaret,
Skulking around like some crummy
Creep from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari…

Giddy Douchebag Girlfriend—
Friend of all the Rich and Famous,
All the Fallen Gods of John Keats’
Lovely Hyperion, all the listless
Dead and old Saturn sybarites…

Here we are stuck with you—
Kvetching like a louche old Leda
Seduced by the Swan-God in the
Reeds like Yeats said, mastered by
The Brute Blood of Big Daddy-O?

Here we are glued hip to hip—
Ghoulishly joined by your busybody
Mean old cul-de-sac, our Passport
Down into your Douchebag Dis—
How you hate Camille Paglia!!!

Now you’re our Douchebag Queen—
Patiently cultivating your literary
And Horoscope desires, dissolving
Big Daddy’s Face into your own
Anorectic Ariel Achtung Ache!!!


Cleaving the Archives



The Rexroth Archives

We don’t speak—of the Way
We don’t think—of what comes next
We didn’t question—names or fame
Here in the Archives—in the Stacks
Here is where—it all ends up…
Letters, manuscripts—true confessions
Like James Frey—A Million Little Pieces
Scattered down here—in files and boxes
All those years—catting around
San Francisco Beatniks—North Beach
Santa Barbara—The Viet Nam War
Four marriages—disillusionment
Some lonely—Japanese translations
Now it’s just—you and me here
Two “untitled”—groups of poems
Deep inside—this UCLA Library
Down in the dark—alone together

—Yosano Akiko

[ Box 86 ][ Folder 13 ]

Jarreau, Diane. 1964. 4 items.
Two untitled groups of poems; two letters