-it is exultingly liberating to scribble mad poems to rescue the unconscious-

(1st performed at the Bisbee Poetry Festival, 1979)

Poets- it is time to crash tupperware parties in the suburbs,

time to stash away umbrellas, dress as jugglers

trading for bats and balls,

and at long last it is time to pillage parochial schools.

Poets- consider open air sunshine,

away with your sweet sandalwood incensed attics and waterbed satori rooms,

instead consider attending Wednesday night prayer meetings,

sweeping the deserts,

time to flee classroom Dewey Decimal libraries of TS Elliot,

and yes Poets,

consider sunning yourselves naked

any summer Coney Island 

baseball stadium bleachers afternoon.

Poets- away from constant printing presses,

speech cannot be contained

head for the forests,

and Poets of America, 

there's a time honored obligation 

to the world of science technology art to not behave yourselves.

and Poets of Yale flatten your Ferraris and hitchhike to St. Louis

Poets of St. Louis sail up to Labrador

Poets of Labrador bus down to Wheeling

Poets of Wheeling sweat it over to New Orleans

Poets of New Orleans vibe your way back up to Bemidji

Bemidji Poets Missouri River your way across to Sioux City 

Poets of Sioux City head through another full moon straight to Madison and then Paterson

And Paterson Poets smuggle your counterfeit baseball tickets then sail off to New York City

translating for your Venetian and San Franciscan Sisters and Brothers.

Poets, please! enough of jet plane culture shock twentieth century quickies,

enough of those torturous slow dyings,

Poets, when the journey's over it's over,

then vanish into the endless relentless High Cascades

like Lew Welch in 1971 in his birthday suit.

and Poets, out from Zen pacifist meditation temples

out from tantric embraced cycles of internal nowhere

out from underground exotic esoteric discoveries three in the morning foreign language alien currency nightmares.

Yes, fellow Bards spilling Truth may be all that is left,

so out from your self imposed jails into the headlines,

join the Women’s and Rotary Clubs of America

and crash every art society and right-wing meeting

including Johnny Birch and the Kandy-ass Klan,

and Poets, infiltrate members only country club Bar Mitzvah mahjong Thursday evening affairs

and even though your first head job might have caused embarrassment

there is little reason for shyness now,

after all, isn't there a hint of shit-eaten from the President’s grin on TV?

we’re talking about eating raw amphetamine fed red meat if you have to, 

uncooked toothpicked flesh

for we must become more visible,

exist as do our Poems,

quit and abnegate downers and tranquilized alcohol

instead compete in ticker-tape parades 

celebrate the Dada Manifesto anniversary,

check into and inspect local hospitals and sanitariums

enlist then raze the marines and IBM

debate and agitate your congresspersons

throw spitballs during batting practice,

and of course halt the reading (not writing) of books

instead, hold banquets for sanitation workers

divvying up each other's dreams

honoring each other’s visions.

Poets, time has come to lie down with the Tigers of Albion

fill backpacks with radios and sunflower seeds

airmail flowers to all the mothers in Yonkers and Des Moines

being Poets,

then proceed to autograph the manhole covers in your hometown.

Right, Poets, out of the pawnshops

remove your chastity belts goddammit

unplug those useless TV’s and shake hands a lot

ask strangers for directions for the hell of it

recite verse on downtown uptown street corners 

enlist in roaming dog packs foraging garbage can alleyways 3:00 in the morning

and campaign for city council kissing babies and hugging everyone.

Poets of America how and where can we sleep soundly?

Poets why does our nation’s attention avert from the South Bronx?

Run out into streets urban rural with songs and testimonials

and stop behaving yourselves,

stop being civilized,

we are the last tribe left with some semblance of humor,

so it is up to us to boycott the IRS 

up to us to refuse to wear bifocals

up to us to swallow the first immortality pill

up to us to run for President.

Look, Gregory Corso’s sleeping in dresser drawers

Look, Ginsberg’s studying to become a rabbi

Look, Jack’s been trapped inside the cold Lowell ground 10 years

and nobody quotes Whitman anymore

high schools have forgotten Pound!

academics label Byron a queen

Dylan's nothing more than a politician?

And Burroughs grows thinner and greener

Poets of America why aren't you searching?

you fuckers

you were born with the allergy, the itch,

so throw off the humility of swallowing hard

turning the other genital

we have nothing to lose but a slow pathetic death

Poets of America we may be the worst criminals

more repulsive than usurers,

for we relax within our nailbiting soul-searching identity crises

leading dharma karma “I want to become Buddha" avoid subways after dark lifestyle contentment

so yes, I urge all Poets to grow hair everywhere

urge all Poets to sign the Six Gallery Manifesto

urge Poets to patrol the streets quoting Beatnik verse

and form a union

demanding empathy with all lives matter,

and I implore all Poets

scribbling Poetry

reading Poetry

quoting Poetry

fantasizing Poetry

perverting Poetry

publishing Poetry

gorging then shitting Poetry

starving hysterically naked Poetry…

I urge all Poets

to act as Poets

cease musing over Poems

and become the Poems you profess!

Composed for Bisbee Poetry Festival, 1979