-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 begin crashing tupperware parties in the suburbs,

it is time to stash away umbrellas, dress as jugglers

trading for goats milk,

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

Poets- consider open air sunshine,

away from sweet sandalwood incensed attics and waterbed satori rooms,

it is time to consider Wednesday night prayer meetings,

sweeping the deserts,

time to flee the classroom Dewey Decimal libraries of TS Elliot,

and yes Poets,

consider sunning yourselves naked

any summer Saturday afternoon

baseball stadium bleachers in America.

Poets- away from these constant printing presses,

your speech cannot be contained,

and head for the forests,

and Poets of America,

you have a time honored obligation to the world of science and technology and art to not behave yourselves, Yes!

then closet Poets of Harvard hitchhike to Pleasant St

Poets of Pleasant St sail on to Labrador

Poets of Labrador bus down to Wheeling

Poets of Wheeling sweat all the way over to St. Louis

Poets of St. Louis vibe your way up to Bemidji

Bemidji Poets Missouri River your way across to Sioux City

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

Paterson Poets smuggle forged gondola tickets and sail off to Venice

and Poets of Venice to Vladivostok

and from Vladivostok pack it all the way west to San Francisco---

Poets, enough of jet plane culture shock twentieth century quickies

enough of torturous slow dyings,

Poets, when the journey is over,

simply disappear into those long stretching High Cascades

like Lew Welch in '71 dressed in his choicest birthday suit

and Poets, out from Zen pacifist meditation temples

out from tantric embrace cycles of internal nowhere

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

Yes, fellow Bards- the truth is all there is,

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 the country club Bar Mitzvah mahjong Thursday evening affairs

and even though your first lay job might have caused embarrassment

there is little reason for shyness now,

after all, is there a hint of shyness from the President’s grin on TV?,

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

uncooked flesh,

for we must become more visible,

exist as do our Poems,

put away downers and tranquilized alcohol

and instead consider ticker-tape parades and

celebrate the anniversary of the Dada Manifesto,

consider checking into hospitals and sanitariums

enlisting in the marines or IBM

arguing with your congressperson

throwing spitballs at pitchers during batting practice,

and of course stop reading books

instead, consider holding banquets for sanitation workers

divvying up each other's dreams

believing in each other’s visions

Poets, it is now time to lie down with the Tigers of Albion

buy backpacks filled with radios and sunflower seeds

time to airmail flowers to mothers in New Jersey and Paris,

being Poets,

and petition 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

recite verse on downtown uptown street corners and in parks

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

and campaign for city council kissing babies and hugging every Mom

Poets of America where can we at last sleep soundly?

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

Run out into the streets with the songs and testimonials

and stop behaving yourselves,

stop being civilized,

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

it is up to us to tell the IRS where to get off

it is up to us to refuse to wear bifocals

up to us to become President

up to us to swallow the first immortality pill

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

Look, nobody quotes Whitman anymore

high schools have forgotten Pound!

Academics call Byron a queen

Dylan nothing more than a politician?

Look, Burroughs grows thinner and greener

Poets of America why aren't you searching?

you fuckers

you were born with the allergy

so throw off the humble swallowing hard

turning the other genital

we have nothing to lose but a slow death

Poets of America I say we are the worst criminals

more terrible than rapists,

for we have apathetically relaxed within our nailbiting soul-searching identity crises

confusing dharma karma “I want to become Buddha" avoid the subways after dark lifestyles

so yes, I urge all Poets to begin growing hair everywhere

urge all Poets to sign the Six Gallery Manifesto

urge all Poets to patrol the streets quoting Beatnik verse

and to form a union

demanding empathy all lives matter,

and I urge all Poets

scribbling Poetry

reading Poetry

quoting Poetry

fantasizing Poetry

perverting Poetry

publishing Poetry

gorging then shitting out Poetry

then crying Poetry…

I urge all Poets

to act as Poets

to cease musing over Poems

and forever do Poems!

Composed for Bisbee Poetry Festival, 1979