Jean Genet Our Lady of the Flowers
at the Chicago Democratic Convention 1968
Was he in town to see the American
political system in action or was it
simply to witness a new kind of street
dada, absurdist theater in action,
a play for all centuries and seasons:
The Democratic National Convention Live,
Chicago 1968? Certainly, he hadn’t been
smuggled into the country from Canada
to hear Phil Ochs sing a particularly
poignant version of “A Close Circle of Friends”
among the charging lines of police
and National Guard or to hear Allen Ginsberg
chanting OOOm through the tear gas haze
of Collins Park at dawn or the see Ed Sanders
with or without The Fugs and their shadows,
the unwashed informants, two of the thousand
strong that came with the rabble rousers,
dirty tricksters and all the others carrying
signs and singing songs along the drawn
battle lines. Dressed in leather, he could
have been someone’s fancy man, some thin gypsy
thief poised to evade the ending of a no
longer soft parade, an incursion provided
by Mayor Daley and his goon squads ordered
to turn a mid-summer’s night dream into a
nightmare of split heads and confusion a whole
generation could never forget. How could it
have been that no one knew he was there?
among so many government spies and their
counterpart, the new radical Left? And, what
did he come away with besides a whiff of
street warfare and chemical controls?,
his taste for old world decadence and fashionable
politics slaked? A sense that nothing is
gained or lost when the issue is already decided,
the government shackled by its own chains,
the world divided by a continental rift
much more easily and tastefully observed
from afar in some four star hotel with Bill
Burroughs, sipping champagne and seeing it all broadcast live in living color at someone else’s expense.
Tales of Beatnik Glory
They lived in
mortal fear
of finding all
the thoughts
of the best
minds
of their
generation
written down
on scraps
of paper
stuffed in
the mouths
of crocodiles
or
contained within
melting colored
goo inside of lava
lamps
changing shapes
faster than
their minds
could hope
to under-
stand
seven flights
toward heaven
in a rent
controlled flop
house
where any-
thing could
happen seven flights
toward heaven
in a rent
controlled flop
house
where any-
thing could
happen
& often did
slum goddess
Maybe she
thought that
if she main-
lined enough
stuff, dressed
like some kind
of resurrected
Warhol queen
and strutted her
stuff up & down
McDougal Street,
she’d be anointed
the Official Slum
Goddess of the
Lower East Side,
or maybe she’d
get so strung
out, so hyper
no one would
notice or care
what she did
until she dressed
up as some low
budget super girl,
and did a swan
dive from the top
floor of some
closed-for-the-
duration tenement
high rise to see
if the stash of
super balls sewn
into her garments
and bundled in
her cowl would
make her rebound
as high as she
felt, as high
as the moon.
flower children
The look had been
new
fashionable in the 60’s
The Songs of Innocence
and Experience
verses tattooed amid
the Wildflowers and
cosmic symbols
the yin and the yang
of their bodies
though,
now, after decades
of aging
and abuse,
the look was
burned out
heavily weighted
onto the experience
side
downcast
as sun
flowers weary
of time
She looked as if
“who can hear the teeth in the roses
gnash, forecasting winter? old woman
who carries heaven in one plain brown
bag and hell in the other.” Jack Evans
an evil higher
Authority had
been playing all
her deep sueno
canciones in a key
of metaphysical
distress, time
signatures so far
over the line
and out there
her extremities
had begun to twitch
in anticipation
of the next series
of notes, you
could see that
she was trying
to hold her hands
out for a 21st
century version
of alms for the poor
but her body &
brain were so
out of synch, it
wouldn’t happen
in a million
years, there seemed
no point trying
to aid & abet,
she had already
received her life
sentence & there
was no hope
for a last minute
reprieve.
New Amphetamine Shriek
I was young
& invincible
like you once
too-took handfuls
of pills just
to see what
would happen-
my favorite
song of the
late 60’s was
over under sideways
down Clapton
cutting riffs
before he was
Clapton-that’s
the band-The
Yardbirds-David
Hemmings’ steals
the guitar fret
from in the movie
“Blow Up” but you
wouldn’t know
about that either
I would have
tried anything
twice back then-
hell you could
get handfuls of
high grade speed
for less than 20
beans, do triple
doubles and not
even think about
sleeping, Man,
it was wild having
to drink a fifth
of Scotch just
to even out &
sex, Man, well
all I can say is
All that rocket
fuel makes you
Strong Like Bull—
coming down
though was a
drag but who
thought about that?
when you’re young
you can conquer
anything but, Man,
crashing was like
waking up as
Frankenstein’s
monster with
the peasants all
around you in
revolt bearing
torches, trying to
burn you out
& all you can do
is scream those
postlude blues,
that new ampheta-
mine shriek.
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