General

Gone Postal

I Close My Eyes

by David Ignatow

I close my eyes like a good little boy at night in bed,
as I was told to do by my mother when she lived,
and before bed I brush my teeth and slip on my pajamas,
as I was told, and look forward to tomorrow.

I do all things required of me to make me a citizen of sterling worth.
I keep a job and come home each evening for dinner. I arrive at the
same time on the same train to give my family a sense of order.

I obey traffic signals. I am cordial to strangers, I answer my
mail promptly. I keep a balanced checking account. Why can’t I
live forever?

The Subtle Yet Feared Martian Invasion

Woke up this morning with light in my eyes
And then realized it was still dark outside
It was a light coming down from the sky
I don't know who or why

Must be those strangers that come every night
Those saucer shaped lights put people uptight
Leave blue-green footprints that glow in the dark
I hope they get home all right

{Refrain}
Hey, Mr. Spaceman
Won't you please take me along
I won't do anything wrong
Hey, Mr. Spaceman
Won't you please take me along for a ride

Woke up this morning, I was feeling quite weird
Had flies in my beard, my toothpaste was smeared
Over my window, they'd written my name
Said, so long, we'll see you again

 The Byrds

Victory Sort Of

Van Gogh's Prayer

by János Pilinszky

A battle lost in the cornfields
and in the sky a victory.
Birds, the sun and birds again.
By night, what will be left of me?

By night, only a row of lamps,
a wall of yellow clay that shines,
and down the garden, through the trees,
like candles in a row, the panes;

there I dwelt once and dwell no longer—
I can't live where I once lived, though
the roof there used to cover me.
Lord, you covered me long ago.

Brain Chops

The Preface

by Philip Whalen

A continuous fabric (nerve movie?) exactly as wide as these lines—
"continuous" within a certain time-limit, say a few hours of total
attention and pleasure: to move smoothly past the reader's eyes,
across his brain: the moving sheet has shaped holes in it which
trip the synapse finger-levers of reader's brain causing great sections
of his nervous system—distant galaxies hitherto unsuspected (now
added to International Galactic Catalog)—to LIGHT UP. Bring
out new masses, maps old happy memory.

Sirens

This is the one song everyone
would like to learn: the song
that is irresistible:
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember.
Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
I will tell the secret to you,
to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
is a cry for help: Help me!
Only you, only you can,
you are unique
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Margaret Atwood

Sea and Land

Fog Horns

by David Mason

The loneliest days,   
damp and indistinct,   
sea and land a haze.   
   
And purple fog horns   
blossomed over tides—   
bruises being born   
   
in silence, so slow,   
so out there, around,   
above and below.   
   
In such hurts of sound   
the known world became   
neither flat nor round.   
   
The steaming tea pot   
was all we fathomed   
of   is and   is not .   
   
The hours were hallways   
with doors at the ends   
opened into days   
   
fading into night   
and the scattering   
particles of light.   
   
Nothing was done then.   
Nothing was ever   
done. Then it was done.

Another Country

Whoso list to haunt could do worse than to Obtain the license, get the picture. Spook finders must find spooks to put the face, Name and space coordinates together. What is kept in the mind perimeter Retains a wild autonomy through fate. I will retreat to the precorporate. Let fate have what is fate’s and allow This spirit to slip through time’s difficult Nets with the devious fingers of A wild wind, while I run along behind.

  The Domestic Life of Ghosts
by Tom Clark

 

Surf City

Well all be planning that route
Were gonna take real soon
Were waxing down our surfboards
We cant wait for june
Well all be gone for the summer
Were on surfari to stay
Tell the teacher were surfin
Surfin u.s.a.

   From Surfin.USA

    THe Beach Boys

 

 

 

Have You Driven A Ford Lately

He is pushing a black Ford
through an empty street –
a car like his father's
that beat the flat roads like wind
in summer and brought him here.

He never forgave his father.
That was the year he left home.
Then there was talk of weather
and everyone was packing.
Windmills were stopped
all over Kansas.

He is thinking of fathers,
the ways they never forgive you,
withholding love like lust.
But they quit, they stop like pumps.
There is no way to
set them working again.

He is thinking of mothers,
how she could not know how he
half followed girls down dark streets
of his heart, how that loneliness
is passed to sons,
to the fathers of sons.

He is pushing a black Ford.
Its problem is such a heart
you cannot give it enough care.
Like a father it will quit.
And there is no end to this.

Depression
by Henry Carlile