Throwing my cockroach body, I am fully metamorphosed, against this keyboard to bring you the interior decoration of my mind, all Texas medicined and railroad ginned, which is sort of like the East Village crawled in my ear before it got gentrified. And there was this crazy graffitti all over it telling something like a story about what might have happened once out on the frontier of electricity. Clyde the Twisted Buffalo is the deity in the Empire of Dr. Bienke responsible for Ukulele Heaven, which is the B-culture paradise Koo aims for after turning from Murderousness. Koo visits a witchy woman and gets himself a Mojo which he eats, unwisely perhaps, during his desert pilgrammage and he is transported to the lobby of the Amundsen Hotel in Denver where Clyde's dead buffalo butt idles in an armchair of dead cowhide and Clyde is drinking a layered concoction from a pousse cafe glass balanced improbably upon his hoof. When he lived, Clyde was one of thoses Buffalos with poor digestion who occupy the literal fringe of Buffalo society and upon whom the obligation to Watch Out falls. Clyde has been Twisted into Immortality by his failure to Watch Out well. Clyde saw the Cowboys, but he didn't know what they meant, and he waited to see what they might mean, and sometimes waiting for meaning is waiting too long, and all the Buffalo Clyde ever knew went away.
All schools are Military schools--Bismark. There's a photograph, I'm guessing from the Seventies, of West Point cadets in uniform and all of the reading Howl in the City Lights edition, and watching the latest West Houston Boy Desert Destruction special I thought about that photograph a lot because the boys in that photo are now Leadership Men. The notion that reading poems in school ever gonna result in peacefulness don't hardly seem to fly. We gonna have to keep poetry out of schools because teachers are sorry ass poetry growers. For instance not o ne teacher I ever had suggested to me that a surefire way of growing poetry is to plant objects like, say, a sprung clothespin, in dirt, but that's hardly surprising when you consider that not one History Book ever told me that once the most powerful radio station in the world sold patent medicine and an operation wherein bits of goat testes are transplanted into a man's prostate gland. Skoos are a sore letdown.
Whorehouses would be a much better venue for the diddemination of knowledge especially if they were pretentious whorehouses pervaded with an aesthetic of elitism which kept everybody tippytoed on best behavious. Whorehouses pretty much exactly like Art Galleries. In the Whorehouse Art Gallery I have built this morning in a small space of the incredibly junky apartment of my mind there is a show playing--its a cold, rainy day and we expect little business--called "Experimental Second Grade Fragments of the Empire of Dr. Bienke," and along one wall are shelves upon which are many different jars. The jars are each filled with water and a quantity of sprung clothesping in varying states of rust and decomposition and several also support living things. One a potato sprouting. One a crawdad. There are two gallerinas in kimono floozy costume sitting at a card table upon which are displayed some antique mah jong tiles. When I come in to play Ukulele, one of the girls will read, rather limply, from a copy of Veblen's Theory of the Leisure Class. After playing the U shall use a marker to draw a dog on the back of the Ukulele, referencing the Dogs on Rox tribe. I shall add the newly inscribed Ukulele to a pile of similarly inscribed Ukuleles, any of which you can purchase from one of the gallerinas and she might smile for you, which would be something. Something. After my labor i will go somewhere for tea. Somewhere.
I don't believe in God, but I believe everyman a priest, and thus am I a Priest of Nothing, concocting a futile litergy of getting through another smurfing day.
9:29:15 PM 
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