Howl - catch the sound

[judih]

jota sent me this article. Read it and go for a visit through time.


http://commongroundmag.com/2005/cg3209/howl3209.html

Howl at fifty

50 years ago, a San Francisco gallery poetry reading launched a literary renaissance that would change America’s consciousness. The spiritual and environmental legacy of Allen Ginsberg



go to the link to read it all.

(thnx jota)

[stilltrucking]

How many Americans do you think know who he is?
Change American Consciousness?
Yeah if you are talking about New York.
Or San Francisco
It still doesn’t play in Peoria.
Unfortunately
it is still the 1950's in the fly over country.

Kaddish is the one that strikes home for me.
Standing at the graveside reading it phonetically
feeling like a fool. But I suppose words are magic you don't have to know what they mean.

[stilltrucking]

Thinking about jota's jewish mother, And wondering if her mother was Jewish or was her father jewish, or were they both jewish? Just a racist I am. Thinking about litkicks flames and a joke about a pizza and a Jew. I would think pelerine and jamelah would get along better since they both have a Palestinian grandmother. The name jota always pushes a button for me. How many bricks have I thrown at him. How much I love his poetry. Wishing I could be more whimsical. Maybe this should go on GO. Just rambling spontaneous typing to the name Jota.

Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory
caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord
Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord

standing by a grave
reading Kaddish phoneticaly
a young man insane
my heart froze with every scream I heard my mother make at his funeral
throwing herself on a coffin
she knew she had killed him
mama's boy that he was
but what could she do
her daughter haunted
her childhood stolen
and me
trying to fake a tear for him
how many years to make peace with him
Crazy Mike my father my self.

[judih]

words are magic, but if you feel their power, the magic works exponentially.

It's also said that if a person does the 'Wild Duck' Chi Cong cutta (series of movements), it doesn't matter if the movements are done perfectly, they still work magic on the body to awaken chi and stimulate energetic and hormonal health.

This to me is the definition of objective art: art that creates effect in everyone.
Like walking into Notre Dame and letting the magic of architecture have its way with you.

Will Howl radiate into every nook and cranny? It might if we bring it to every corner.

The question remains, if Howl is brought out to the people without the radiant Ginsberg germ of consciousness, will Howl be Howl?

[stilltrucking]

I just edited the hell out of my reply above
sorry we passed like ships in the night
What is happening to me these days
a second childhood I suppose
"have children and late them raise you"
some of us have to raise ourselfves
i can't stand to watch a microwave count down to zero
I stop it at four seconds.
As if the those 4 seconds are the last moments of my life.

[judih]

the microwave quote is a keeper.
to be included in the stilltrucking book of life

[stilltrucking]

I was posting while you were
I was born under an evil star

[stilltrucking]

judih, I wish jota would come visit
I miss his poetry
I go to litkicks once in a while to look for him
but it is a creepy feeling to go where one is not wanted.
does he have a website?

[judih]

jota's one of the Swiss Poem Account Collective. Go there and click onto his name.

http://www.geocities.com/privaj/swisspoet.html

But there have been no updates since its original format.

i miss him too. Dor and i were missing him together just yesterday.
Hope he feels the love.

j

[stilltrucking]

Hope he feels the love.

I hope so too

When I think of his poetry now I am reminded of a Joni Mitchell song

Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you’ve got
‘Til its gone

I have read more poetry in the last four years than I have in the prvious forty. I was in a bad place judih, not that awake yet, but far more better than I was before I stumbled on litkicks and you and doreen and jota, among many others. I have thrown some bricks at jota, I can't tell you how much I regret that. But he always seemed so happy when the litchicks would run me off. I suppose I resented that.

Now I know I had it coming

Thanks for the link
I could use a jota poem right now.

[stilltrucking]

I hope he don't mind
http://www.geocities.com/privaj/jota3.html
This one could be for the Victims of Katrina And The Federal Government
For the woman who floated in a refrigerator for three days.

Color My Skin

Color my skin
.....the way you like
.....the way you do
Cross the street
Turn your gaze
So you won't see
What you don't like
That face of mine
That's not like you

Slash me with those slits of yours
Though I’m not really black or white
Just something in between
That you don’t like

Fling your flaming toys and sticks
Call me what you hate and like:

Spic and
Kike and
Darkie Nigger
Wop and
Jew and

Not like you

Where’m I from?
Fuck you
Color my skin
the way you like
the way you do

God
He She’s a nigger, too, and
Wop and
Gook and even
Jew
He She’s
Bigger than you
And me and
All my wretched
Starving brothers

So whip me chain me hang my heart
in disbelief
Hunt me down and
Set your dogs
Upon me
Let them smell
the color of my skin

Find me
Beat me
Burn me
Strip me
Rape me
Drag me away in smoke
Murder me and
Make my angry skin
a trophy of your hate
Color my skin
the way you do
the way you like

You who dread the pressing seas
Of Yellow, Brown and Black
Each day they sluice upon your gilded path

You who try to break my will
You won’t ever change the color of my skin
You who curse the roaming lions in the night
Their yellow eyes glare back at you
They shake you with their roar
And laugh at all your fright

But I
Am not your whore
Murder me you kill yourself
Remember this ghost man
Jesus Christ he killed himself
to save your
Soul

Together
Me and Jesus and all the wrong-skinned brothers sisters

We
Outnumber
You

Dedicated to
· James Byrd Jr., who on the morning of June 7, 1998, was chained to the bumper of a pickup truck and dragged three miles to his death.

· Also to Will Brown who was burnt to death by a vigilante mob outside the Omaha, Neb,. courthouse on Sunday, Sept. 28, 1911, and to victims of racism everywhere.
Buddy the Wino

[stilltrucking]

starting to feel nervous about posting his poetry, I suppose I should email him for permission. But I feel nervous about that too. What should I do?

[judih]

you give him credit - add his name at the bottom

and that's that.

If i'm not mistaken, Color My Skin is also featured on his artist page here at Studio 8.

Presenting his poem is fine! He's already given permission to Doreen here and me over there at Swiss Poem.

j

[mtmynd]

fifty years and the howl can still be heard
reverberating in the back alleyways
on the streets of an america gone dead
ricocheting its timelessness
like ghosts thru the white house corridors

yes... the howl continues
echoing phantom cries to
an america that still breathes and cares
in shivering desperation from
the chills of corporations and armies
of the scared and paranoid

the howl will never die
for it is the pain of neglect
that will cause the howl
to howl....

[judih]

HOWL