Wednesday, June 13, 2012

A Vision of Taj Mahal (purely armchair) & Portrait of Judge Thomas - 1991

Poem with improvised keyboard music back up . . .  
 or, you can hear me read just the poem
this poem is from 1991 poems, Fugitive ABC's.

          Taj Mahal.

                    Burp furor.

These are some little things that don't have any meaning.

"If they have no meaning, why write them?"

I write them because they have no meaning.

                              Is he a high hope Pope?
Or a magnificent downer.

                    He's a meaning hog.

          Lay French out for German to scarf.

          Watch German, watch Japanese
          Watch Black, watch White
          Watch mixtures.
          The chemistry of the Earth

Test tube babies, choosing the sex of the infant.

Don't drag your down into depression.

The biological time Assumption of our Lady of Seniority.
The Goddess of the Goddess of the semi-artificial man.

Artificial inseminal stupidity.

Oh the wonders of . . . . the wonders of . . . .
          What was the subject?

The Goddess of the Taj Mahal, biological slums
the arch new man playing with his beanbag.
Germ warfare. First animal-to-man graft in 1964.
          Oh the wonders of
The Pause that menstruates.
          PMS throws "she's on her rag" out the door.
          Mood control. Intelligence for all including the Barbarians.
          Artificial insemination ovulation.
          Brains without bodies!
          Chemicals to banish sanity.
          Moral horse pills.

A vision of an armchair reveler.
How much fun can you have sitting down?

          Transplantation ultra-centrifuge.
          Two halves of the brain reading two books at once.

          The Empress, favorite wife of a Mogul Emperor
          dreamed up the Taj Mahal.
          The Goddess of the dream was her imagination.

          Eternal life, deep frozen, comes to light.

          Who-Am-I pills.

          A beautiful dream in marble.
          My rolling desk chair travels.
          I can't afford a ticket but I write
          And the world's marvels turn into marble.

          The vision of the Taj Mahal took dope to
          bring it into reality.

An old Sage appeared before the Emperor
and offered an architect the drug
Super-thought for brain to brain links.
I am in your brain regenerating your organ,
the organ Bach played on.
Meaning so big it demands acceptance.

The architect drank the unknown drug and
the wondrous Taj Mahal brain-linked to
the Empress vision revealed itself in all its
lack of clichés.

Poetry is brain stimulation, energizing lost cells.

The late Lord Brain, eminent English neurologist
said scientists must clean up the bathrooms
of their laboratories, roll up their sleeves
and deal with the aftermath of their deposits
in the social world of now.

Responsibility to the population density of the
A Bomb
B Bomb
C Bomb
D Bomb
E Bomb
F Bomb
G Bomb
H Bomb

I Bomb!

So the architect, sage-drunk, finished every detail
of the Taj Mahal plan, vividly, meaning
"gem of buildings."
And, eight-sided, it grew white high,
minaret slendered,
on a platform of red sandstone overlooking
Jumna River.
Persian gardened such as in Kashmir.
And the dream wrought from the Empress
favorite of Shah Jahan at Agra
can be seen under bright moonlight
reflected in cypress-lined pool
to all lovers of armchair onyx,
jasper, carnelian the inner false tomb
of floral marble screens
surrounding her & his pretended thereness
as the sun strikes intricate dawn up
lighting the jeweled cenotaphs

           Kuwait, Saddam, Haiti, Yugoslav
          Khmer Rouge, Tainanmen Square, Prague
      Berlin, the Kurds, Ethiopia, Detroit, Tibet
    Jerusalem, L.A., South Africa, Romania
   Austin, the new Nunavut, Japan
  Aspen, Washington DC, Russia, Magic Johnson
irreversible ozone anti-viral depletion
monster ingenious notorious gene-splitting
immunity murderers, genetics in the deep-freeze
the real dead are under the Taj Mahal
17th Century reflection of the gasping obstruction
of the near end of the 20th
radiating cancer balls on the pool table
"I have been saying for 30 years
to stop this Population Monster,"
Norman Barlaug of the Green Revolution says
but the gangrene of meaning intervenes
in the no-hospital future, the no hospitable now,
"If we can't do this then
it's a losing ballgame,"
putting human waste back
in the soil, rather than the rivers.
We are what we waste.

He faces the portals of a slower Second Green Revolution
through the daze, through the days going by
the pattern of the poets growing
a spider web of words spun hot out of the body

no meaning, just song, long.
          So saying
I cover the time
          the cloned people passing out
from lack of intervention
if everything is left to its own waste
it composts
          the oncoming, incoming

The human-oriented news

The focus is all us.

No lessens.
Oh vision that took 22 years to build.
Take a hundred, near Delhi,
tomb of beauty I can't really see.

The imagination of nonsense is my goddess.
Honesty is the best
back-pocket policy.
Put your money where
your heart is,
or your heart
where hope.

High hopes.

Are hard.

A simple hope
isn't simple

an epoch crashes
into the questions it has raised:

Inside the great echoing dome
echoing whispers and a cat's purr
my little house
is all I don't control.

Brain to body gives up to
link fate
our Lady of Grandiose Principles
from the real tombs underground.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico
December 30, 1991
from Fugitive ABC's, poems from 1991

Portrait of Judge Thomas
you can hear this read, it's a bit over a minute  
uncategorically deny that I did nothing, 
said nothing, or pretended to do anything 
that would cause anyone any harm anywhere, 
whether they were connected or not connected 
to any organization under my thumb 
or having caused sexuality among any of my 
employees, or did I ever produce indecent sperm 
in public or pretend I was top jock or bottom 
jock, and I absolutely do not recall any 
amoral, certainly no immoral flaw in my superfluous 
character which shall remain a shining example 
as it always has to our youth, our office girls, 
who have the immaturity to scream every time I 

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico
New Year's Eve, 1991

(Two poems from the last two days of 1991) lg