The Neponset River was a widest river in your life.
No one knew its source.
None of us asked about its headwaters.
They weren’t located on the South Shore.
May that river run deep forever
Quentin Sprague
This poet hails from Maine. I spent my earliest years on Falmouth Foresides across the harbor from Portland. Quinton presently resides on Peakes Island farther out in Casco Bay. In his fishing years he regularly commuted from Maine to New Bedford. He probably crossed the twenty-nine mile long Neponset on I-95 south of Boston. Never knowing the source of the river. I thought it was the Great Cedar swamp in Walpole. Wrong. Its headwaters have been drowned by a reservoir in Foxborough in the 19th Century. Another mysytery of its waters,
A Letter from Huey Newton to the Revolutionary Brothers and Sisters about the Women’s Liberation and Gay Liberation Movements" is considered the first pro-gay, pro-woman proclamation to come out of the black civil rights movement.
During the past few years strong movements have developed among women and among homosexuals seeking their liberation. There has been some uncertainty about how to relate to these movements.
Whatever your personal opinions and your insecurities about homosexuality and the various liberation movements among homosexuals and women (and I speak of the homosexuals and women as oppressed groups), we should try to unite with them in a revolutionary fashion. I say "whatever your insecurities are" because as we very well know, sometimes our first instinct is to want to hit a homosexual in the mouth, and want a woman to be quiet. We want to hit a homosexual in the mouth because we are afraid that we might be homosexual; and we want to hit the women or shut her up because we are afraid that she might castrate us, or take the nuts that we might not have to start with.
We must gain security in ourselves and therefore have respect and feelings for all oppressed people. We must not use the racist attitude that the White racists use against our people because they are Black and poor. Many times the poorest White person is the most racist because he is afraid that he might lose something, or discover something that he does not have. So you're some kind of a threat to him. This kind of psychology is in operation when we view oppressed people and we are angry with them because of their particular kind of behavior, or their particular kind of deviation from the established norm.
Remember, we have not established a revolutionary value system; we are only in the process of establishing it. I do not remember our ever constituting any value that said that a revolutionary must say offensive things towards homosexuals, or that a revolutionary should make sure that women do not speak out about their own particular kind of oppression. As a matter of fact, it is just the opposite: we say that we recognize the women's right to be free. We have not said much about the homosexual at all, but we must relate to the homosexual movement because it is a real thing. And I know through reading, and through my life experience and observations that homosexuals are not given freedom and liberty by anyone in the society. They might be the most oppressed people in the society.
And what made them homosexual? Perhaps it's a phenomenon that I don't understand entirely. Some people say that it is the decadence of capitalism. I don't know if that is the case; I rather doubt it. But whatever the case is, we know that homosexuality is a fact that exists, and we must understand it in its purest form: that is, a person should have the freedom to use his body in whatever way he wants.
That is not endorsing things in homosexuality that we wouldn't view as revolutionary. But there is nothing to say that a homosexual cannot also be a revolutionary. And maybe I'm now injecting some of my prejudice by saying that "even a homosexual can be a revolutionary." Quite the contrary, maybe a homosexual could be the most revolutionary.
When we have revolutionary conferences, rallies, and demonstrations, there should be full participation of the gay liberation movement and the women's liberation movement. Some groups might be more revolutionary than others. We should not use the actions of a few to say that they are all reactionary or counterrevolutionary, because they are not.
We should deal with the factions just as we deal with any other group or party that claims to be revolutionary. We should try to judge, somehow, whether they are operating in a sincere revolutionary fashion and from a really oppressed situation. (And we will grant that if they are women they are probably oppressed.) If they do things that are unrevolutionary or counterrevolutionary, then criticize that action. If we feel that the group in spirit means to be revolutionary in practice, but they make mistakes in interpretation of the revolutionary philosophy, or they do not understand the dialectics of the social forces in operation, we should criticize that and not criticize them because they are women trying to be free. And the same is true for homosexuals. We should never say a whole movement is dishonest when in fact they are trying to be honest. They are just making honest mistakes. Friends are allowed to make mistakes. The enemy is not allowed to make mistakes because his whole existence is a mistake, and we suffer from it. But the women's liberation front and gay liberation front are our friends, they are our potential allies, and we need as many allies as possible.
We should be willing to discuss the insecurities that many people have about homosexuality. When I say "insecurities," I mean the fear that they are some kind of threat to our manhood. I can understand this fear. Because of the long conditioning process which builds insecurity in the American male, homosexuality might produce certain hang-ups in us. I have hang-ups myself about male homosexuality. But on the other hand, I have no hang-up about female homosexuality. And that is a phenomenon in itself. I think it is probably because male homosexuality is a threat to me and female homosexuality is not.
We should be careful about using those terms that might turn our friends off. The terms "faggot" and "punk" should be deleted from our vocabulary, and especially we should not attach names normally designed for homosexuals to men who are enemies of the people, such as Nixon or Mitchell. Homosexuals are not enemies of the people.
We should try to form a working coalition with the gay liberation and women's liberation groups. We must always handle social forces in the most appropriate manner.
Baby City, April City,
angel spirits hiding in the gates,
poets, parasites in their hair, beautiful Baudelaire,
Artaud, Rimbaud, Apollinaire,
contemplate the night city -
Whistleblowers and goalkeepers,
Penalty of Montparnasse, mortal Notre Dame,
contemplate the night circle, the inherited dome,
Hugo and Zola buried together,
harleccino's death trap,
the Seine breeds filthy sludge,
The Eiffel looks from above - it sees the Apocalyptic scorching with ants.
nyc city ,
Town of dead and buried Germans.
Mamma Guerra's doll house.
Gregory Corso with Jocelyn Rothschild - Chez Rothschild sur Ile St. Louis
A poet ugly as sin with a dark view of the City of Light, although anyone who has lived there long enough to identify a friend at the morgue by the Seine is no longer fooled by the lights.
Le Quai de Le Rapee. The black hearses of the State driving the departed from the Bastille to the cemetery de Pere Lachaise.
ps. the opening line of another version is recorded as ‘Childcity, Aprilcity’.
pps My search for Jocelyn Rothschild came up goose-eggs.
ppps The only found meaning for Harlecinno as the Itlaian word arlecinno, an amusing servant in theater
I found this poem thanks to Eric Mitchell, Pittsfield Capitalist and B-Movie legend.
This afternoon at the diamond exchange my co-worker Ava was reading scripture, while listening to god music on her computer. This good woman is worried about my soul. I told her that I was content with the threat of hell, because my best friend had drowned in Sebago Lake at age eight. No one saw him over his head. He died alone. Over fifty years ago I decided that no god could have permitted such a death and I told Ava, “I am happy with my spirituality.”
“But I don’t want you to burn in hell.” This single mom had a heart of gold. Only Jesus could bring me to the promised eternity.
“Believe me. I will not burn in hell.” I’ve never done anything so bad in this lifetime to deserve an endless torment from the devils of Satan. “I’m a good man. Most of the time.”
“But you don’t believe in God.”
“When I was young, hippies believed that a guitar player was God.” ERIC IS GOD was spray painted across walls in the UK and America. Clapton’s searing performance with Cream had earned that accolade.
“No man is God.”
“Jesus was a man.” Earlier Christianity argued the duality of his natures. Half-God. Half-man. Every variation on that theme.
“He was a God.” Ava sucked in her breath. In her mind my words were straight from Satan. Her lips moved with prayer. “You are going to Hell.”
"I'll have good company."
Mostly sinners, non-believers and heretics, but also those devotees to Eric Clapton, for their rock god was a false idol. There is only one and true guitar god.
Jimi Hendrix.
The Jesse James of rock burst onto the screen with his staggering performance at the 1967 Monterrey Pop Festival. A long way from his first gig at Seattle’s Temple De Hirsch. At the end of covering the Troggs hit WILD THING he set his Fender Stratocaster on fire. From that moment to his final appearance in Germany Hendrix was the mountain.
I saw him at Boston Garden in 1970 with my good friend Wayne Shepard. The opening bands were Illusion and Cactus. Their sets were short. No one had come to see either band. We were waiting for the Jimi Hendrix Experience Part 2. Jimi took the stage with Mitch Mitchell on drums and Billy Cox on bass.
The set consisted of Fire, Lover Man, Hear My Train A Comin’, Foxy Lady, Room Full of Mirrors, Red House, Freedom, Ezy Ryder, Machine Gun, The Star-Spangled Banner, Purple Haze, and Voodoo Child (Slight Return).
I kept shouting out THE WIND CRIED MARY. Wayne worshiped Jim. He elbowed me to shut up. I stopped after the LSD hit my brain. I don’t remember much after that other than singing “Cuse me while I touch the sky.”
Jimi didn’t burn his guitar with lighter fluid that night.
Only with his fingers.
40 years ago.
When I was young.
And listening to him tonight broughtme back to those days.
18.
Jimi lives on.
Forever.
One day maybe Ava, my co-worker will understand my worship of the Left-Handed Guitar. He was human. Like the rest of us.
Karl Marx and Fredrich Engels were always perplexed how the English people had not rebelled against the ruling class ie the aristocracy, the royalty, and the capitalist during the continental Revolution in 1848. Professor Berthel Ollman in his works suggested that the filthy rich had bought them off with small gains and the threat of a deeper poverty. Dunt has put the USA in great danger with his cuts to the budget to favor tax cut to the rich as well as his entering a War wth Iran in support of Zion's strategy of Lebensraum.
In various media outlets like the Wall Stret Journal and the NY Post and Fox News online the comments are against taxing the rich and very pro-war. Mamdani is attempting to balance the city's budget after decades of the real esate developrs an city councils and politician getting rich by allowing taxless luxury condos undercutting the tax base. According o Google AI His plan includes a 5.88% city income tax rate for those earning over $1 million, a corporate tax increase to 11.5%, and restructuring property taxes to target those tax-free luxury properties.
The despicable AI bots fill the comments with attacks on anyone asking for the rich to pay taxes
It's either tax those that have and don't pay or taxed those that pay and don't have. The choice us simple. ps none of you are rich and I don't hear the b-aires complaining o ly those who think one day they might be wealthy. Dream on. There are only three ways to become a billionaire; birth, marriage, or theft. Hard work. I done hard work all my life. All I have is a good life and the best pizza in the world in NYC.
A recent photo on the website forty-deuce featured a foto of the above man in the doorway of a porno parlor. Comments accused him of being rough trade. None of them were right. He was too old for the chicken Hawks and too hard to be a hustler. As a frequenter of the XXX parlors of Times Square and the doorman at downtown after-hour clubs a single glance at his photo identifier him s a low level gang enforcer. His job ensuring the counts were honest and the street cops got paid weekly if not nightly.
The business was good on the Strip. All in quarters for the booths. $3000 a day in most parlors and a star attraction like Show World or the gay Adonis theater pulled in as much as $10,000 a day. All cash.
This thug had the right look for the strip. Wicked danger available at a price. That is not an actor. He has answers to the needs johns can answer by themselves.
Everyone in the world has a phone. I can call Fenway's mom in Thailand and Mam will pick up the phone on the other side of the world. This is a miracle, considering only twenty years ago phone service to foreign countries was a costly expenditure. Now international connections are linked by communication satellites circling the globe to transmit billions of cellular calls and SMS messages to their distant destinations, yet this Sunday no one has called me at the Fort Greene Observatory.
And it was not the advent of the Zombie Apocalypse.
Planes and helicopters flew over Brooklyn and cars hummed along Lafayette Street, so I'm not Mada, Adam's dead end, but twelve hours have passed since my last spoken word. That stretch of silence is not a record. I have gone longer, since Sundays have been my traditional day of silence.
Back in the last century I lived in the East Village. My apartment was small, but comfortable. My Sundays were spent watching football or basketball, reading a book, luxuriating in the bath or all of the above. Every once in a while I'd check the phone to see there was a dial tone.
The phone was in perfect working order.
No one wanted to speak with me, until I started dating Ms. Carolina. She liked talking. I couldn't blame her. Ms. Carolina lived in a redneck community south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Some of her neighbors entertained funny thoughts about the intermingling of races and religions.
Early Sunday service at her husband's church lasted two and a half hours. Baptists wasted the entire morning in prayer. Her congregation was very advanced for the area. They believed blacks had a soul.
Around 11am the telephone rang and Ms. Carolina recounted the preacher's ranting sermon in accent. I didn't have to say a word.
She was originally form New Jersey. Her family was Old Yankee same as half mine. We had more than those genes in common. I knew her husband. He was a good man. Ms. Carolina spoke low and ended with the wish, "Good luck with your vow of silence."
Luck had nothing to do with my Sunday's silence, because my mouth was silted with the residue of Saturday night drunk.
Wordlessly I hung up the phone with my vow intact. My function was to listen to a woman's yearning. I was good at it.
As a junior in 1968 my girlfriend Kyla suggested that we spent the weekend on a spiritual retreat at a suburban monastery. The buxom cheerleader felt guilty about the sexual stirring. Two weeks earlier Kyla had confessed to the parish priest that she and I had come close to sex.
Our pastor had convinced the 17 year-old cheerleader that our wanton behavior was Satan's work, even though dry-humping wasn't proscribed by the Bible.
"You sure this has nothing to do with your mother?" Kyla's mom was a devoted church goer same as mine.
"No, I feel something in my heart calling me to Jesus. I want you to feel it too."
"Okay." The weekend cost nothing and no priest could shake my lack of faith in God.
"I only want you to do this, because I love you."
"And I love you."
Kyla and I had never gone all the way. Our sex was blunted by her unwillingness to be naked. I respected her wishes. My hands were not so obedient.
"I want to be pure as snow." Her skin was whiter than baby powder.
"I'll do whatever you want."
I signed up for the retreat. Chuckie Manzi, feared losing me to the priesthood.
"They might drug you with LSD holy water."
"I'll be okay." I had been faking my belief in God since my best friend drowned in 1960. A weekend was not likely to test me.
My mother was ecstatic to hear of the weekend. Her uncle was an arch-bishop. She had been praying for one of her four sons to answer God's calling. She never thought it would be me and on Ascension Weekend a bus rolled down our street with Kyla and fifteen other couples. My mother kissed me on the cheek and said, "Open your heart."
"I'll do my best." I looked over her shoulder.
Chuckie stood on the lawn. His eyes said good-bye forever and I got on the bus to sit next to Kyla. The bus pulled away from my house and we drove ten minutes to a wooded monastery underneath Big Blue Hill.
We were met by priests and nuns; one for each couple.
"Purity is the one true love." The habited nun raised her hands with welcome.
"I know you are all virgins." The head priest was tall and bald. His smile beamed sanctity. "God knows you are pure and purity is the best way for young people to show your love for God and Jesus, so you are going to be separated by sex."
"All weekend?" I was holding Kyla's hand.
"Except for prayer meetings and Mass." A young priest with a guitar motioned for us to move apart.
The Nuns of Chastity escorted the girls from the monastery to a nunnery hidden by tall pines.
"See no evil." The Pastor led the boys inside a separate building. "Hear no evil."
I stifled a groan.
This was going to be a long weekend.
That evening we ate beef and mashed potatoes followed by a lengthy prayer session in the basement. The girls were on one side of the room and the boys the other, as we discussed our immortality of our souls and the temporal existence of our bodies and souls.
The head priest noticed my looking at Kyla.
"Saving her soul is more important than your desire. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, Father." I loved the girl with the green eyes more than physical pleasure or so I thought in this basement.
We hit the beds early. The lights went out at nine. I heard several boys masturbating under the blankets. Two of them went to the bathroom together. Without girls we left on our own.
The next morning started with Mass. I took Holy Communion for the first time in years and stuck the wafer in my pocket once I reached my pew. After the service we ate breakfast and the nuns led the girls to chapel. The boys sat under a tree with the guitar-playing priest.
The day was warm and the sky was free of clouds. The priest indoctrinated us with the ways of God. I couldn't stop thinking about Kyla. The priest strummed his guitar and said, "A woman will steal your precious fluids. Women were the handmaidens of Satan. Touch one outside of matrimony and you'll brut in Hell forever."
Some of the other boys confessed their sins of thought and deed. I wanted to run for the woods, but I wasn't leaving without Kyla. After dinner we listened to religious rock on the stereo. God was never far from us on this weekend.
That night I had spilled my seed twice. Other boys joined my one-handed prayer. Masturbation was our most holy sacrament.
On Sunday morning the priest and nuns celebrated the ancient mass and the head priest preached about the eternal satisfaction of serving the Church. The climax of the weekend was the grand one-on-one session with an older priest in the basement. He was the exorcist for the diocese.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" His rheumy eyes were skilled at searing into souls.
"My love for my girlfriend is untainted by penetration."
"But you have touched her?"
"Not the way you think?"
"Have you ever touched a man?"
"No."
"Have you ever thought about a naked man?"
"No."
"Are you asking everyone this, because the only other times I heard these questions were from drivers trying to pick me up hitchhiking. Do you do that? Isn't that a sin?"
"The Holy Trinity absolves our trespasses." He put his hand on my thigh. I pushed it away, then heard an electric guitar blast from the stereo in the meeting room. The priest looked up. This music was not on the program and I recognized the guitarist as Jimmy Page from the Yardbirds.
"I gotta go." I ran upstairs to find Chuckie by the stereo.
"I just got this from the record shop in Mattapan Square." He held up the cover of the Hindenburg crashing in flames. "It's Led Zeppelin. You got to hear this."
Chuckie turned the stereo up to 10 for DAZED AND CONFUSED.
Bass and guitar.
High-pitched vocals and then the avalanche of drums.
6 minutes and 25 seconds later I went upstairs and packed my bag. Chuckie put on HOW MANY MORE TIMES and the rest of the boys joined my flight.
The priests tried to stop Chuckie from playing the album. He had a Boy Scout knife, which was sharp enough to fend off the soft palms of the church. We stormed across the lawn to the nunnery. The girls had heard the music and were already to go. We walked to the road. Chuckie had somehow organized enough cars for escape. He was a good friend.
"I love that music." Kyla touched my hand.
"It is pretty cool." Her touch was nicer than that of the priest."
"Let's go to the beach." Chuckie shouted 'Nantasket' out the window.
It was a day fit for the gods.
None of us attended Mass after that weekend. We defied our parents' deity. Our Sundays were centered on breakfast at the local diner and I celebrated the Sabbath with simple words.
"Bacon and eggs over easy."
Kyla and I never went all the way. Led Zeppelin was a huge hit. My older brother and I saw them at the Newport Jazz Festival. Kyla and I broke up a week before the Senior Prom and she married a boy from our hometown. They made a good couple. She would never have been a groupie for Led Zeppelin.
My present vow of silence endured into the darkness of night. I didn't have to be anywhere until tomorrow, but felt like a beer in the company of others and there's no where better in Fort Greene to have a beer than Frank's Lounge with the lovely bartender, Rosa. She's a girl who doesn't like silence, then again most women like the sound of voices. It's part of their nature and no one knows that better than a man.
