AN AMERICAN PASTORAL
All games contain the idea
Baths, bars, the indoor pool. Our injured leader prone on the sweating
tile. Chlorine on his breath and in his long hair. Lithe, although crippled,
body of a middleweight contender. Near him the trusted journalist,
confident. He liked men near him with a large sense of life. But most
of the press were vultures descending on the scene for curious America
aplomb. Cameras inside the coffin interviewing worms.
Inside the dream, button sleep around your body like a glove. Free now
of space and time. Free to dissolve in the streaming summer.
Sleep is an underocean dipped into each night. At morning, awake
dripping, gasping, eyes stinging.
The eyes looks vulgar
Inside its ugly shell.
Come out in the open
In all of your Brillance.
In the womb we are blind cave fish.
Everything is vague and dizzy.
The skin swells and there is no more distinction between parts of the
body. An encroaching sound of threatening, mocking, monotonous voices.
This is fear and attraction of being swallowed.
show us your ragged head
& silted smiling eyes
calm in fire
a silky flowered shirt
edging the eyes, alive
come, calm one
into the lifetry
Yoga Powers. To make oneself invisible or small. To become gigantic
and reach to the farthest things. To change the course of nature. To
place oneself anywhere in space or time. To summon the dead. To exalt
senses and perceive inaccessible images, of events on other worlds,
in one's deepest inner mind, or in the minds of others.
time and out of season
Stood by the side of the road
And leveled his thumb
In the calm calculus of reason.
"Me and my...ah...mother
and father...and a grandmother and a grandfather...were driving through
the desert, at dawn, and a truck load of Indian workers had either hit
another car, or just maybe...I don't know what happened...but there
were Indians scattered all over the highway, bleeding to death. So the
car pulls up and stops. That was my first reaction to death. I must
have been about four... Man, all of a sudden there were red skins and
they're just lying all over the front of the road bleeding.
So they pull the car up and they stop. And I'm just a kid so I just
stay in the car with the women. I don't know whether I'm crazy or what
but I had the feeling when that happened, like I didn't want to look
back, like a child, like a flower whose head is just floating in the
But the reaction I get now thinking back... is that, possibly, the soul
of one of these Indians, maybe several of them, just ran over and just
jumped into my fucking brain.
I'm sitting there and I know somethings happening because I can dig
the vibrations of the people around me, who I think are very heavy people
because they're my parents and grandparents and everythings real secure,
And all of a sudden I just realised that...ah...they were just little,
screaming creeps in the face of reality. And that they didn't know what
was happening anymore than I did.
That was the first time I tasted fear.
Modern life is a journey by car. The Passengers change terribly in their
reeking seats, or roam from car to car, subject to unceasing transformation.
Inevitable progress is made toward the beginning (there is no difference
in terminals), as we slice through cities, whose ripped backsides present
a moving picture of windows, signs, streets, buildings. Sometimes other
vessels, closed worlds, vacuums, travel along beside to move ahead or
fall utterly behind.
The voyeur, the peeper, the Peeping Tom, is a dark comedian. He is repulsive
in his dark anonymity, in his secret invasion. He is pitifully alone.
But, strangely, he is able through this same silence and concealment
to make unknowing partner of anyone within his eye's range. This is
his threat and power.
In the seance, the shaman
led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants, dancing,
hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice, convulsive movement. He
acts like a madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for
their psychotic leaning, were once esteemed. They mediated between man
and spiritworld. Their mental travels formed the crux of the religious
life of the tribe.
Principals of seance: to
cure illness. A mood might overtake a people burdened by historical
events or dying in a bad landscape. They seek deliverance from doom,
death, dread. Seek possession, the visit of gods and powers, a rewinning
of the life source from demon possessors. the cure is culled from ecstasy.
Cure illness or prevent its visit, revive the sick, and regain stolen,
Urge to come to terms with
the "Outside," by absorbing, interiorizing it. I won't come
out, you must come in to me. Into my wombgarden where I peer out.
Where I can construct a universe within the skull, to rival the real.
She said, "Your eyes
are always black." The pupil opens to seize the object of vision.
Through his efforts, the shaman helps his patients transcend their normal
ordinary definition of reality, including their definition of themselves.
The shaman shows those in his audience they are not emotionally and
spiritually alone in their struggle against illness and death.
The shaman shares his special powers and convinces these people, on
a deep level of his consciousness, that another human is willing to
offer up his own self to help them.
You parade thru the soft summer
We watch your eager rifle decay
Your teeming emptiness
Pale forest on verge of light
More of your miracles
More of your magic arms
Hi. How you doin'? I just
got back into town. L.A.
I was out on the desert for awhile.
Yeah. In the middle of it.
Hey, listen, man, I really got a problem.
When I was out on the desert, ya know,
I don't know how to tell you,
but, ah, I killed somebody.
It's no big deal, ya know,
I don't think anybody will find out about it, but...
this guy gave me a ride, and ah...
started giving me a lot of trouble,
and I just couldn't take it, ya know?
And I wasted him.
Look where we worship.
We all live in the city.
The city forms often physical, but inevitably psychicallya
circle. A Game. A ring of death with sex at it's center. Drive towards
outskirts of city suburbs. At the edge discover zones of sophisticated
vice and boredom, child prostitution. But in the grimy ring immediately
surrounding the daylight business district exists the only real crowd
life of our mound, the only street life, night life. Diseased specimens
in dollar hotels, low boarding houses, bars, pawn shops, burlesques
and brothels, in dying arcades which never die, in streets and streets
of allnight cinemas.
When play dies it becomes the Game.
When sex dies it becomes Climax.