Physical Dark

July 31, 1976 at 11:30 pm (1976)

And still the physical dark looks out on us, spirit-worldly and dark, out the dull yellow face of the moon, and out the thick black planets, and the glaring stars. For we are against them. Clouds, stars, sun, moon, they plot against us. For we have fallen, we have fallen, we have turned on them. Even God glares at us within the sun.

You see we've hung day on the cross. And buried him, and expect no resurrection. And even fewer angels. None to weep at all.

We too banner the cross.

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New Fire, New Metaphor

July 31, 1976 at 11:15 pm (1976)

What we need is a new human fire of life. New fire and new metaphor to wake us from the deep, deep steel slumber of modern life.

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Swarm

July 31, 1976 at 11:00 pm (1976, Journal)

The woman beneath him, with her little swarm of cries.

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Damn Free

July 25, 1976 at 9:15 pm (1976)

I could write my hate all night, I've got a life of it in me. Can't you see, can't you see how you've done me? Integrated me into a life that's all wrong. Busy damn people everywhere making their own hell. Always words words words. I'm damn well sick of words and thoughts. Nobody gives a damn except for their own mind, their own little collection of beliefs, what they “know.” What does it matter what anybody knows, we've still got to live. We've still got to be men and women. Why do we attack ourselves, our one chance to live, with all our own thinkings and mental grapplings. Why always such great mental struggles. Why so much damn thinking. I only wish some land to be alone and free of it all, and the food I need, and the woman I need, who doesn't think, and forest quiet and night quiet, and natural days and a friendly sun.

Just keep the tools of man's mechanical/mental hell away from me, out of my sight and touch and smell. I want to be damn free of it.

How a man can fear death and eternal hell I cannot understand: he's here right now, and it looks eternal enough to blot out completely his short life.

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For Once Something Right

July 25, 1976 at 8:30 pm (1976)

Always I wonder if I'll ever escape from miserable life. Brought up without regard or care for my body, brought up as a mind only, an 'idea' of God, immersed totally in the mental life that disdains physical atoneness. Brought up in the damn unbalance that is so typical of modern man: life run from the head. Brought up like this, a choiceless child, spurred on by the desire for love, I became chained in the cycle. Eyes gone rotten and half-blind, soul blind as well. And no chance for decent life save by more exploitation of my own mind: for that is the only legal way to earn a living now. I am already a creature down, vitally hurt, and the natural pettyness and snappyness of this world only eats away at my health more and more—won't let up, or let me up. I damn damn damn cities. I damn damn damn suburbs. I damn damn damn small towns. All're the same: petty people snapping about with their minds. Damn, I am injured. I hate it, all about me everywhere, like a disease. I want franticly to shake it off my hands. It eats at me. I am sick. My eyes are very sick. My mind is worn to a worried nub. And I am trapped. Nowhere to go. Always you need money for food to eat. Always laws eating away at you more. No place to harbor but is infested. A shitass civilization that is absolutely repulsive, vulgar, nitpicking. It won't let you be.

I only ask to be something other than a victim: to be free of all the bother of men and their things, women and all their things. I just want to live simply, like I was born to.

But they hold you by the tail for money and tribute. They hold everything belonging to life for a ransom. You can't have land, or merely live on it, first you must buy it with money, then you must return tax-tribute. You can't even marry without sanction from the rest of men and women, which is the final insult. Roads are splayed everywhere and fences, and poison-cloud making factories. And always the ransom of money is held over your head. And the constant mental chatter of men everywhere, women everywhere you go. Sold so easily into betrayal and damn pointless living. Absolutely commercialized lives.

Anyway, it doesn't matter. My life is so far miserable and wasted, soul in me betrayed to death, and I grow high-strung for escape. But I don't know how or where. I only know I hate my life so far, hate myself for having no blood and no sanctity.

I'm damn well fed up with words. I want touch. Not to die. Just a chance to live, and so be a man. For once something right.

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Livingroom Boxes

July 20, 1976 at 7:45 pm (1976)

Even now the queer eyes look out at us, seated so before our livingroom boxes with hypnotic attention. It is some strange animal speaking to us, and it draws the queer eyes with brows wrinkled up. It is no animal, not alive; that they sense at once; yet, still, listen; for it speaks. It speaks the sure-fire and the mechanical. Appeals to the death in us, the white rotting stomachs that give way like infested sawdust: we stomach too much. All rot inside and gullible. Let them thrill us to changing styles, changing lives. A boat we must own, and live the seashore thrills. Until, at least, we feel all wet, and want a dry change. Then it will be cars again, or motorcycles, or airplanes. Let us fly. Anything that will thrill. What does the T.V. say next?

The queer otherworld eyes wince at this, and look in, and make nothing of it. Only, it's nothing for a woman, a man to do. To play subject to a livingroom box. Not for life!

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Mechanical

July 18, 1976 at 4:30 pm (1976)

Thy bare-boned hand fists up, knocks at the fist of thy head
With that same pained, grasping knock of a hand that has bled
Drop to drop out of it all the giblet-nerved blood thick and red
That was in it to drop, with only the mechanical left:
Skulled nerve orders beeping their way down like the dead.

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Peeking out

July 18, 1976 at 3:15 pm (1976)

In the grass there was wind—a green wind in the grass.

He had lived in that house four years. For four long, angry, dull years. He had hated it, hated every minute of every day of every month of every year. It had not been his house, neither his life, but theirs, preeminently theirs. Life lived their way. He had lived not his own life at all, but theirs.

Up now peeks the penis slow and careful from his nest, from the curly hair that is sign of the boy matured to man: hair grown curly. Out looks penis from his safe black nest, peeking out. What in the world shall await him?

The clouds were moving across the sky, quick and sudden in their rush.

The water cascaded over his shoulders, down his breast and genitals and down his legs, bouncing upon the rocks off the hooks of his two feet.

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Other World

July 17, 1976 at 9:15 pm (1976)

And so we are fools, and go about ourselves and our business. But we do not know that through the queer-eyed lamps of our grey night streets, the other world looks out on us. The dark other world, inhabited by dark physical bodies. They hide behind the thick trunks of our trees at night, around the corner-shadows of our buildings, the wet, wrong reflections on our rainy streets. It is the dark physical world looking queerly out on us. At the false gods.

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Inactive

July 17, 1976 at 8:45 pm (1976)

In the USA, our nightmare has been our inability to accept life. To resign ourselves to it. We absolutely refuse provincialism, refuse to be contained. A great desire to know things, and to peer in on it all like wise gods. . . .a consuming desire to know life and not be known, be consumed by life. We want to eat our cake but not have it. We cannot accept being tied down to life. We insist on surmounting it with knowledge and height, the cute conveniences of technology and inactive energy. Can't stand to be weighed down to mere life.

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Flowers

July 17, 1976 at 8:15 pm (1976)

A man is a much more delicate, rare thing than we imagine. So is a woman. Like a shy plant that dares not flower til the season is right. That's how it is with us, with our man or our womanhood side. It only flowers rarely in this mechanical season. Only rarely does it show, and spite the things that are destructive to it, the harsh mental things. But when it does petal out and open, a dark, deep touch is made, a big, deep touch. The woman comes out of her clothes, out of hiding, and the man shows his face and his hands. Suddenly there are his hands looking like the hands of a man, will-free, instinctive, free of forced habit, a bit uncoordinated. And the woman is out of her skin of clothes, fit to be seen in her deep soul, dark like her protective hair. She no more flits around with artificial eagerness and shallow joy, like a dumb blond butterfly, still wrapped in a cocoon of triteness. Her consciousness shifts downward to balance away from the mental edge, into flowered physical awareness. Away from words and wordyness toward a silent figuring, a silent knowledge. The new bodily awareness of the world, untouched, prime and untouched by anything mental. It's the central underground spring of creative mystical awareness.

In coming into touch with the man, they touch this awareness, renew themselves, and at the same time fulfill themselves with a full physical fulfillment.

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Question

July 16, 1976 at 6:45 pm (1976, Journal)

We see a lot of My Country Right Or Wrong things, but very few My God Right Or Wrong. I wonder why?

(Has Nationalism outstripped Religion?)

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Cockroach

July 14, 1976 at 7:30 pm (1976)

Always the cockroach, you patter across the floor
In your gallumping invisible patters
And gone now behind the crude plastic stone
Of a wall, on up the bathroom corrodors like an ant
But bloated and squishy, a squishy ant, half-smashed, juice
Oozing all out in your wounded gait

Flinging like a crude cave-stone over
The hot sink edge—frantic, crude flinging
Of stone—and your wild, bloodless, cold-terror of me
Terrified stone! Why so fired with terror
In your ice race for the wall—as if you had your own life
Sacred-thing life, and your own sanct right?

Stay away from me, stay away
You with your living anarchy!

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Delicate

July 13, 1976 at 9:15 am (1976)

How delicate a thing is the strength in a man. How frail an animal is the spirit in him. How it needs be harbored and savored, taken good care, joyed in. How slow flows the deep blood of the man, slow and unsure in all its purple and vermillion. How softly surges the penis up with blood, soft and careful, like a head looking out. Is there harbor out there? A haven for the blood and the vital man? A protective inlet for the delicate delicate strength?

And what of the woman, who needs as much to be harbored and cared for, have her own vital strength harbored in the crescent of the man? She too needs her soft female genitals savored and loved. Delicately treated, like sacred things, and breasts delicately harbored in the breast of the man. So the spirit in the blood can flow, the deep blood, redden and glisten in strength and flow in the woman and in the man, and renew, and consumate them.

So the spirit flows and reddens, and shakes them up, and rouses. Until the man is nursed newly into manhood, the woman new into womanhood. And the blood rises up in them, vibrant and proud in new strength, and quite content.

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DNC

July 12, 1976 at 9:30 pm (1976)

So. I have just heard the two “keynote” speakers at the Democratic National Convention—John Glenn, Barbara Jordan. Glenn spoke to the Americans on the other side of their TV sets, Jordan spoke to the Conventioneers. But both said the same message. Exactly. But also in two exactly different manners.

“'As I would not be a slave, so too I would not be a master.' This is my concept of Democracy. To the extent government deviates from this, it's no Democracy.”

A very nice ending. And it is true that it's strange, suddenly, for a Barbara Jordan to be a “keynote” speaker for an American Political Convention. But there she was. Like Glenn she admitted mistakes by the Democratic Party. Too much government interference, bumbling interference. Too much talking down to the people as if over their heads, while actually being under their heads. And Glenn's

“Not 'America right or wrong' but 'America, when right keep it right, when wrong put it right'.”

Which is the Democratic slogan this year, along with

“We've been wrong; we repent it.”

Which is what a merging of Carter and the established Washington Party equals to. A bit of religious repent.

Now will Carter pick Glenn? or will he not? Reason says Glenn, but be careful because you don't want your V. P. to outshine your P.—at least not if you're the P.

Ford should pick Ann Armstrong, the woman, if he's to have a chance of winning.

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Endangered Species

July 11, 1976 at 8:00 pm (1976)

The penis—it's a very important piece of me—it needs to be harbored, so carefully and delicately harbored. It's the most vital part of me—of my own manhood, and needs be nurtured and cared for. And shielded from the piercing poison of the machine world. So delicate, so frail, so endangered a species, my manhood, my delicate penis, homeless, lost its home. Come in touch and in shelter, and give your gentle harbor. For I need it to reclaim me, the man-spirit driven so low in my blood. Bring it up again; harbor it to life. Take it home.

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Thought

July 11, 1976 at 7:30 pm (1976, Journal)

And he thought to himself:

“The penis—it’s a very important piece of me—it needs to be harbored, so softly and delicately to be harbored.”

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Marcuse

July 11, 1976 at 7:15 pm (1976, Journal)

“Is something wrong?”
“Ah no, ignore me. I’m feeling very Marcuse right now.”

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Bed

July 11, 1976 at 8:00 am (1976, Journal)

So I got in bed, hid my head under the pillow, and went to sleep. But I was restless, and changed my position, and opened my eyes—and it was morning! I couldn’t believe it: I hid under the pillow again and went back to sleep.

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Blotch

July 11, 1976 at 7:45 am (1976)

When he was younger he had been twenty, and made a blotch of it.

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