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Moshing
With The Cosmos
by John
Dorsey
"Los
Angeles, The City of Brotherly Love"
By John Dorsey
It was a hot April day, when I set off for L.A. with a
one way Greyhound ticket, and 229 bucks in my pocket,
on my way to the underground's favorite crash
vampire--S.A. Griffin. Why did I head out? What was
I expecting? There were certainly better things to do
than spending 55 hrs on a bus. I was more than a
little nervous. My hands were sweaty. I needed a
shower badly.
Last September, S.A., Scotty Wannberg, author of "The
Electric Yes Indeed", and I started exchanging poems,
by November we putting out a chapbook together, and by
January the project had become the lovely perfect
bound opus/joy that is our recently released book
"Harvey Keitel, Harvey Keitel, Harvey Keitel"
Butchersop Press/Rose of Sharon Press/Temple of Man,
and led to our formation in April as the NWO-New Word
Order.
The bus was more than 2 late coming in, worried S.A.
contacted my manager Chris repeatedly. When I did get
in we exchanged greetings, I hit the showers, then the
fried chicken, and then the Scotch:) The next day we
met up with our friend the lovely Iris Berry, author
of "Two Blocks East of Vine", who was supposed to hit
the road with us as well, but as luck, or bad luck
would have it as it were, got a part as a trophy wife
who gets her tits cut off in a horror movie, but in
the end all things work out. We found our song as a 3
man supergroup, the three stooges of the word, and for
the word.
Starting off Poesy Magazine editor set up to rock the
Wired Wash Cafe in Santa Cruz, where with the help of
the internet I also managed to get laid...I
digress...then it off to Sacramento to the Book
Collector, where we were shown as much love as I ever
gotten at a poetry reading by store owner/poems for
all publisher, Richard Hansen, and then it was San
Francisco, and breakfast with that city's favorite
word slinging son, A.D. Winans.
Once back in L.A. S.A. took me around town, we went to
Black Ace Books, The Temple of Man archive in Beverley
Hills, the movies, corndogs, there was talk of Tony
and Gregory, coffee with Frankie "you think i'm givin'
that to ya" Rios:), sitting in at the acting class,
reading in Orange County, C.'s cheese covered birthday
cake, Bradford bein' an angel, rediscovering the
beauty of life, just when most people think it's half
over, and the Royal Poet's Breakfast in Venice, with
the lady herself Philomene Long throwing magical pasta
in the air, and helping wash Scott 's hair with love,
just as the indian girl b. said to do, chanting we
love you scott, and we do.
After the fact, we were asked in an interview, what we
thought we really came away with doing a tour of
words, it certainly had nothing to do with money, I
had 9 bucks in my pocket when I got home, after a 2 wk
post tour stay in Santa Cruz, S.A. answered
FRIENDSHIP, and he's right--as he usually is.
Yrs ago before I started to do some professional
screenwriting, people were like, "you're gonna hate
L.A., the people are assholes". Well, the point to
this whole rant, is that I don't know who everyone
else I know ever met in L.A., but I had to come 2,600
miles to find a family in words, and I'm gonna hold on
as hard as I can, and as it turns out we may soon be
hitting the road again, and honestly, nothing would
make me happier. TASTAY!
peace and CORNDOGS and more CORNDOGS,
John Dorsey
p.s. for book ordering info contact S.A. at
sagriffin@mindspring.com
the ghosts of 1958
i read somwhere that
that jack micheline and
ted joans rented themselves
cuz some hip little
chick wanted "real" beatnicks
for her sweet sixteen
and of course jack
would tell ya that
he wasn't beat that
is unless you were
picking up the dinner
check of course then
he was one of
the ghosts of 1958
a five spot on
charlie mingus's shoelace dressed
head to toe in
black fixing to bird's spirit in the bathroom
he was there listening
to buddy holly snap
bubblegum to your
parents "true love ways"
in the back of
the chevy where babyboomer
america was born groping
jazz and while in
mexico he fucked every
whore that kerouac ever dreamed of but he wasn't
beat no baby
just one of the ghosts of the 1958
one of the outlaw
spooks of walt whitman
preaching civil rights for
the heart of bob
kaufman even after 1958
was no longer whispered
on our nation's lips
even after gregory went
to italy and bob
went silent into that
goodnight having seen
nightmares that rivaled dante's
"inferno" he sang happy
birthday to the flame of age that had slowly
crept up on the word and swallowed
his tongue hiding it
in some scared hipster's
tomb until he was
ready to come out
and
dance
betsy ross once whispered the whole
world
paddles into a river
our dark landscape a last
minute kiss for luck
where i knew your
touch beginning middle and
ending with where is
the spirit of "gentleman"
jim corbett in the
heartland? a missing
tooth i've got the
golden ticket cuz my fists says so where is
the knowing logic? now
sweet nothings that used to pretend to be
personal
exist as the habits
of the sun in
pleas for
revolution
raining in the morning
gene tunney knew this:
on the news boxing
shadows it is
a question of anthem
some dream in god
bless americas and say
a prayer to the television spirits listen in
the for answers they
come disguised as mixed blessings and burnt
flags lavished on well
meaning ghosts of our
nation her stolen youth
and liberty our leaves
of grass cut short
by her experience at
least when comes
to symbols seen as
offerings of
truth
american ghost
bones: part i.
i.
under their breath
they'll say you're mad
ghost bones mouse bones
mouse whispers the duke
who plays the music?
that tune? in your
head a slide-show showcasing contempt for the
dancing girls singing whiskey
sours creeps along the
edge of an american moon
high noon every thought
a memory is this
not the glimmering abode? the mouth of sheol?
but the hot ticket out of the gates smoking
gun the eyes a heaven to set the
world
ablaze ii.
no
longer able to speak
in flags to preach
stars what is your
name? what is
price of youth?
what is a darker
anthem worth outside
of the
o.k.
corral?
iii.
sing me a song sing for your supper
the wind sings tiny deaths for those moments in
between silences for
the sheep they count
in dreams you might call this a song of
yourself gazing into
the path of heaven's
dark twin what is
magic? but swept up bones bled out to the
tune
of
night
iv.
floating union made souls
for the lament of
swan songs on
broken
jukeboxes
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