Free The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan by Alice Notley

academy of the future is opening its doors
    my dream a crumpled horn
    Under the blue sky the big earth is floating into “The Poems.”
    “A fruitful vista, this, our South,” laughs Andrew to his Pa.
    But his rough woe slithers o’er the land.
    Ford Madox Ford is not a dream. The farm
    was the family farm. On the real farm
    I understood “The Poems.”
    Red-faced and romping in the wind, I, too,
    am reading the technical journals. The only travelled sea
    that I still dream of
    is a cold black pond, where once
    on a fragrant evening fraught with sadness
    I launched a boat frail as a butterfly
LXXV
    Seurat and Juan Gris combine this season
    to outline Central Park in geometric
    trillion pointed bright red-brown and green-gold
    blocks of blooming winter. Trees stand stark-naked
    guarding bridal paths like Bowery
    Santa Clauses keeping Christmas safe each city block.
    Thus I, red faced and romping in the wind
    Whirl thru mad Manhattan dressed in books
    looking for today with tail-pin. I
    never place it right, never win. It
    doesn’t matter, though. The cooling wind keeps blowing
    and my poems are coming.
    Except at night. Then
    I walk out in the bleak village and look for you
LXXVI
    I wake up back aching from soft bed Pat
    gone to work Ron to class (I
    never heard a sound) it’s my birthday. I put on
    birthday pants birthday shirt go to ADAM ’ S buy a
    pepsi for breakfast come home drink it take a pill
    I’m high. I do three Greek lessons
    to make up for cutting class. I read birthday book
    (from Joe) on Juan Gris real name José Vittoriano
    Gonzáles stop in the middle read all
    my poems gloat a little over new ballad quickly skip old
    sonnets imitations of Shakespeare. Back to books. I read
    poems by Auden Spenser Pound Stevens and Frank O’Hara.
    I hate books.
    I wonder if Jan or Helen or Babe
    ever think about me. I wonder if Dave Bearden still
    dislikes me. I wonder if people talk about me
    secretly. I wonder if I’m too old. I wonder if I’m fooling
    myself about pills. I wonder what’s in the icebox. I wonder
    if Ron or Pat bought any toilet paper this morning
LXXVII
    “ DEAR CHRIS
    it is 3:17 a.m. in New York city, yes, it is
    1962, it is the year of parrot fever. In
    Brandenburg, and by the granite gates, the
    old come-all-ye’s streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,
    the season of delight. I am writing to you to say that
    I have gone mad. Now I am sowing the seeds which shall,
    when ripe, master the day, and
    portion out the night. Be watching for me when blood
    flows down the streets. Pineapples are a sign
    that I am coming. My darling, it is nearly time. Dress
    the snowman in the Easter sonnet we made for him
    when scissors were in style. For now, goodbye, and
    all my love,
    The Snake.”
LXXVIII
    Too many fucking mosquitoes under the blazing sun
    out in the stinking alley behind my desk!        too many
    lovely delicious behinds fertilizing the park! the logic
    of childhood is not genuine         it shines forth
    so rare
    Dear Ron: Keats was a baiter of bears who died
    of lust! Today I think about all those radio waves
    The academy of my dreams is opening its doors
    Seurat and Juan Gris combine this season
    Except at night!
    Then I walk out in the bleak village
    in my dreams, for they are present! I wake up
    aching from soft bed        Back to books. It is 3:17 a.m. in
    New York city
    The Pure No Nonsense:
and all day “Perceval! Perceval!”
LXXX
    How strange to be gone in a minute
    Bearden is dead         Gallup is dead         Margie is dead
    Patsy awakens in heat and ready to squabble
    Dear Chris, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
    I rage in a blue shirt, at a brown desk, in
    A bright room, sustained by the darkness outside and
    A cast-off emotion. A hard core is “formed”
    That the angels have supereminent wisdom is shown
    “He Shot Me” was once my favorite poem
    Speckled marble makes my eyes ache as I rest on
    The only major statement in New York