Perca Tempo

Utah Student Disrupts Government Coal Minning Auction

Tim’s Story

Tim DeChristopher came to Utah in his early 20s to work as a wilderness guide for at-risk and troubled youth. Tim was born in West Virginia, where his mother was an early advocate for the cessation of mountaintop removal coal mining. In 2008 as a student of Economics, Tim attended the Stegner Symposium at the University of Utah, where he was greatly moved and galvanized by Dr. Terry Root, a scientist for the International Panel on Climate Change. Dr. Root explained to the audience that elements of the climate crisis were already irreversible. Tim confronted Terry after her presentation and asked her if it were true that many species, natural wonders and bioregions were in imminent peril. Terry put her hand on Tim’s shoulder and said the following: “I am so sorry, but my generation failed yours.” Those words haunted Tim, and dramatically changed his personal worldview.

While Tim was taking his final exams at the University of Utah, advocates for Utah’s wilderness like Robert Redford and the Southern Utah Wilderness Alliance were attempting to bring attention to a controversial auction of Utah public lands, orchestrated by the outgoing Bush Administration. The auction included parcels adjacent to cherished natural resources like Canyonlands National Park. SUWA and other regional advocates brought a lawsuit against the Bureau of Land Management in efforts to halt the auction pending further review and public comment. Through no fault of SUWA or their allies, the lawsuit could not settle the issue prior to the auction. On December 19^th, Tim finished his last final exam and took TRAX to the protest that SUWA and others had organized outside of the auction. On arrival, Tim decided that the protest needed to be moved from outside of the auction to inside, where the action was happening. With no prior plan of action, Tim entered the building where the auction was held and approached the registration desk. When asked if he was there to bid, Tim made a quick decision. He registered as Bidder 70 and entered the auction.

Tim intended to stand up and make a speech or create some other kind of disruption. Once inside, however, Tim recognized the opportunity to stop the auction in a more effective, enduring fashion. He sat quietly with his bidder paddle lowered, until he saw a friend from his church openly weeping at the sterile transfer of beloved red rock lands away from the public trust and into the hands of energy giants. It was then that Tim decided to act.

At first, Tim simply pushed up the parcels’ prices (some starting as low as two dollars per acre, and were ultimately sold for $240 per acre). Once almost half of the parcels had been sold to oil and gas companies, Tim felt he could no longer bear to lose any more public lands. Tim bid on and won every subsequent parcel, until he was recognized as an outlier and escorted from the auction. Once it was revealed that Tim did not have the intent or the means to pay for the parcels he won, the auction erupted in chaos. Because Tim won so many parcels and inflated the prices of so many others, the auction had to be shut down. Due to the requisite thirty-day period between a canceled auction and its rescheduled successor, the incoming administration took office before the auction could be rescheduled. Upon review of the parcels in question, Secretary of the Interior Ken Salazar dismissed the auction, declaring that the BLM had cut corners and broken many of its own rules, including a crucial statute requiring all federal agencies to take the impacts on our climate into account prior to auctioning off public lands for the purpose of energy development.

Tim’s action garnered a great deal of media and public attention, and catalyzed an overwhelming influx of support and applause for his creative, effective, and nonviolent act of civil disobedience, which ultimately safeguarded thousands of acres of Utah public lands. Tim’s bold act, coupled with his personal charisma and the gravity of his motivation, brought enthusiastic activists out of the Utah woodwork. Together with other activists who were equally concerned about the climate crisis and inspired by the effectiveness of Tim’s action, including current Director Ashley Anderson, Tim founded Peaceful Uprising, a volunteer-based climate action group committed to defending a livable future from the fossil fuel industry.

Tim’s action on December 19^th radically changed the course of his life. After the current administration decided to indict Tim, despite the confirmed auction’s illegality, Tim took his message to the widest possible audience to bring attention to the desperate need for effective action to combat the climate crisis. Tim also emphasized the ways in which his action had positively impacted his own life. “Ed Abbey used to say, ‘Sentiment without action is the ruin of the soul,’” Tim said, addressing the crowd at 350.org’s 10/24 International Day of Climate Action. “I would take that a little further, and say that principled action is the salvation of the soul. I may have to go to prison, but every day since that auction, I walk a little taller, and I feel a little more free.”

It took the federal government more than two years to convict and sentence Tim. The trial was delayed a total of nine times by the Prosecution. Federal Judge Dee Benson dismissed Tim’s initial defense (the “Necessity Defense,” claiming that Tim’s crime was the lesser of two evils when weighed against the threats posed by the illegal auction). The Defense’s assertion of Selective Prosecution (as no other bidder had ever been indicted for failing to pay for parcels at an auction) was also dismissed. The threat of climate catastrophe that motivated Tim was banned from the courtroom and kept from the ears of the jury, as were the fact that Tim managed to raised adequate funds for initial payments on the parcels after the auction; the fact of the auction’s confirmed illegality; and the dismissal of multiple parcels.

Despite the multiple rescheduled dates, climate activists, organizers, and advocates from all over the country came to Salt Lake City for Tim’s trial to demonstrate their solidarity with a brave young man willing to offer up his own future to fight for the future of our planet. Supporters marched to the federal courthouse, where they remained for the trial’s duration, singing revolutionary songs and never leaving the Courthouse steps despite freezing rain and rough weather. Tim often expresses his own deep faith in the power of song, to unite people and empower them to act without fear. Referring to environmental and climate justice advocates in America, Tim summed up his own perspective: “We will be a movement,” he frequently stated, “when we sing like a movement.”

On March 3, 2011, after hours of jury deliberation, Tim was convicted of two federal felonies: one count of false representation, and one count of violating the Federal Onshore Oil and Gas Leasing Reform Act. Between his conviction and his sentencing hearing, Tim was able to tour the country, speaking to college students, climate activists and progressive audiences in every region. He assured supporters that he was fearless and unremorseful about his actions, and urged activists to be bold and brave in the fight for climate justice. Tim reminded his audiences that all meaningful social change in American history has required nonviolent civil disobedience. Tim urged activists to take the long view, and be ready to go to jail to defend their principles and their cause. “We don’t need to figure out how to keep me out of jail,” Tim explained to a concerned Santa Fe supporter. “We need to figure out how to get more people into jail.”

On July 26^th, 2011, Tim was sentenced to two years in federal prison. In the pre-sentencing report, the Prosecution openly admitted that Tim himself was not a threat to society or at risk to reoffend; the stated purpose of the sentence was to deter other activists from taking similar action to further the climate movement. In his final statement to the Judge, Tim said that he understood why the Prosecution saw him as a threat. “[My message] may indeed be threatening to the power structure,” he said. “The message is about recognizing our interconnectedness. The message is that when people stand together, they no longer have to be exploited. Alienation is perhaps the most effective tool of control in America, and every reminder of our real connectedness weakens that tool.”

After his sentence was issued, Tim was removed immediately from the courtroom and taken into the custody of federal agents. 26 people were arrested outside the Salt Lake City courthouse, and 26 solidarity actions happened at federal courthouses throughout the United States. The demonstrations were intended to express supporters’ outrage, and more importantly, to illustrate the climate movement’s undeterred commitment to continued action. Tim’s conclusion to his final statement to the courtroom at his sentencing hearing crystallized his own personal stake in that commitment:

“You can steer my commitment to a healthy and just world if you agree with it, but you can’t kill it. This is not going away. At this point of unimaginable threats on the horizon, this is what hope looks like.  In these times of a morally bankrupt government that has sold out its principles, this is what patriotism looks like.  With countless lives on the line, this is what love looks like, and it will only grow.”

Tim is currently serving his sentence at the Herlong Federal Correctional Institute in Herlong, California.

http://www.peacefuluprising.org/tim-dechristopher/tims-story

Sangue do Bairro

Bezouro, Moderno, Ezequiel
Candeeiro, Seca Preta, Labareda, Azulão


Arvoredo, Quina-Quina, Bananeira, Sabonete
Catingueira, Limoeiro, Lamparina, Mergulhão, Corisco!


Volta Seca, Jararaca, cajarana, Viriato


Gitirana, Moita-Brava, Meia-Noite, Zambelê


Quando degolaram minha cabeça
Passei mais de dois minutos
Vendo o meu corpo tremendo


E não sabia o que fazer
Morrer, viver, morrer, viver!

A cidade

A praça é do povo

O POVO AO PODER

Quando nas praças s'eleva
Do Povo a sublime voz...
Um raio ilumina a treva
O Cristo assombra o algoz...

Que o gigante da calçada
De pé sobre a barrica
Desgrenhado, enorme, nu
Em Roma é catão ou Mário,

É Jesus sobre o Cálvario,
É Garibaldi ou Kosshut.

A praça! A praça é do povo
Como o céu é do condor
É o antro onde a liberdade
Cria águias em seu calor!

Senhor!... pois quereis a praça?
Desgraçada a populaça
Só tem a rua seu...
Ninguém vos rouba os castelos

Tendes palácios tão belos...
Deixai a terra ao Anteu.

Na tortura, na fogueira...
Nas tocas da inquisição
Chiava o ferro na carne
Porém gritava a aflição.
Pois bem...nest'hora poluta

Nós bebemos a cicuta
Sufocados no estertor;
Deixai-nos soltar um grito
Que topando no infinito

Talvez desperte o Senhor.

A palavra! Vós roubais-la
Aos lábios da multidão
Dizeis, senhores, à lava
Que não rompa do vulcão.
Mas qu'infâmia! Ai, velha Roma,
Ai cidade de Vendoma,
Ai mundos de cem heróis,
Dizei, cidades de pedra,
Onde a liberdade medra
Do porvir aos arrebóis.

Dizei, quando a voz dos Gracos
Tapou a destra da lei?
Onde a toga tribunícia
Foi calcada aos pés do rei?
Fala, soberba Inglaterra,
Do sul ao teu pobre irmão;
Dos teus tribunos que é feito?
Tu guarda-os no largo peito
Não no lodo da prisão.
No entanto em sombras tremendas
Descansa extinta a nação
Fria e treda como o morto.
E vós, que sentis-lhes os pulso
Apenas tremer convulso
Nas extremas contorções...
Não deixais que o filho louco
Grite "oh! Mãe, descansa um pouco
Sobre os nossos corações".

Mas embalde... Que o direito
Não é pasto de punhal.
Nem a patas de cavalos
Se faz um crime legal...
Ah! Não há muitos setembros,
Da plebe doem os membros
No chicote do poder,
E o momento é malfadado
Quando o povo ensangüentado
Diz: já não posso sofrer.

Pois bem! Nós que caminhamos
Do futuro para a luz,
Nós que o Calvário escalamos
Levando nos ombros a cruz,
Que do presente no escuro
Só temos fé no futuro,
Como alvorada do bem,
Como Laocoonte esmagado
Morreremos coroado
Erguendo os olhos além.

Irmão da terra da América,
Filhos do solo da cruz,
Erguei as frontes altivas,
Bebei torrentes de luz...
Ai! Soberba populaça,
Dos nossos velhos Catões,
Lançai um protesto, ó povo,
Protesto que o mundo novo
Manda aos tronos e às nações.

Castro Alves

Art is over

Inverno

Inverno

É tudo o que sinto

Viver

É sucinto

p.leminski

Restos do Carnaval

Não, não deste último carnaval. Mas não sei por que este me transportou para a minha infância e para as quartas-feiras de cinzas nas ruas mortas onde esvoaçavam despojos de serpentina e confete. Uma ou outra beata com um véu cobrindo a cabeça ia à igreja, atravessando a rua tão extremamente vazia que se segue ao carnaval. Até que viesse o outro ano. E quando a festa já ia se aproximando, como explicar a agitação que me tomava? Como se enfim o mundo se abrisse de botão que era em grande rosa escarlate. Como se as ruas e praças do Recife enfim explicassem para que tinham sido feitas. Como se vozes humanas enfim cantassem a capacidade de prazer que era secreta em mim. Carnaval era meu, meu.

No entanto, na realidade, eu dele pouco participava. Nunca tinha ido a um baile infantil, nunca me haviam fantasiado. Em compensação deixavam-me ficar até umas 11 horas da noite à porta do pé de escada do sobrado onde morávamos, olhando ávida os outros se divertirem. Duas coisas preciosas eu ganhava então e economizava-as com avareza para durarem os três dias: um lança-perfume e um saco de confete. Ah, está se tornando difícil escrever. Porque sinto como ficarei de coração escuro ao constatar que, mesmo me agregando tão pouco à alegria, eu era de tal modo sedenta que um quase nada já me tornava uma menina feliz.

E as máscaras? Eu tinha medo, mas era um medo vital e necessário porque vinha de encontro à minha mais profunda suspeita de que o rosto humano também fosse uma espécie de máscara. À porta do meu pé de escada, se um mascarado falava comigo, eu de súbito entrava no contato indispensável com o meu mundo interior, que não era feito só de duendes e príncipes encantados, mas de pessoas com o seu mistério. Até meu susto com os mascarados, pois, era essencial para mim.

Não me fantasiavam: no meio das preocupações com minha mãe doente, ninguém em casa tinha cabeça para carnaval de criança. Mas eu pedia a uma de minhas irmãs para enrolar aqueles meus cabelos lisos que me causavam tanto desgosto e tinha então a vaidade de possuir cabelos frisados pelo menos durante três dias por ano. Nesses três dias, ainda, minha irmã acedia ao meu sonho intenso de ser uma moça - eu mal podia esperar pela saída de uma infância vulnerável - e pintava minha boca de batom bem forte, passando também ruge nas minhas faces. Então eu me sentia bonita e feminina, eu escapava da meninice.

Mas houve um carnaval diferente dos outros. Tão milagroso que eu não conseguia acreditar que tanto me fosse dado, eu, que já aprendera a pedir pouco. É que a mãe de uma amiga minha resolvera fantasiar a filha e o nome da fantasia era no figurino Rosa. Para isso comprara folhas e folhas de papel crepom cor-de-rosa, com os quais, suponho, pretendia imitar as pétalas de uma flor. Boquiaberta, eu assistia pouco a pouco à fantasia tomando forma e se criando. Embora de pétalas o papel crepom nem de longe lembrasse, eu pensava seriamente que era uma das fantasias mais belas que jamais vira.

Foi quando aconteceu, por simples acaso, o inesperado: sobrou papel crepom, e muito. E a mãe de minha amiga - talvez atendendo a meu mudo apelo, ao meu mudo desespero de inveja, ou talvez por pura bondade, já que sobrara papel - resolveu fazer para mim também uma fantasia de rosa com o que restara de material. Naquele carnaval, pois, pela primeira vez na vida eu teria o que sempre quisera: ia ser outra que não eu mesma.

Até os preparativos já me deixavam tonta de felicidade. Nunca me sentira tão ocupada: minuciosamente, minha amiga e eu calculávamos tudo, embaixo da fantasia usaríamos combinação, pois se chovesse e a fantasia se derretesse pelo menos estaríamos de algum modo vestidas - àidéia de uma chuva que de repente nos deixasse, nos nossos pudores femininos de oito anos, de combinação na rua, morríamos previamente de vergonha - mas ah! Deus nos ajudaria! não choveria! Quando ao fato de minha fantasia só existir por causa das sobras de outra, engoli com alguma dor meu orgulho que sempre fora feroz, e aceitei humilde o que o destino me dava de esmola.

Mas por que exatamente aquele carnaval, o único de fantasia, teve que ser tão melancólico? De manhã cedo no domingo eu já estava de cabelos enrolados para que até de tarde o frisado pegasse bem. Mas os minutos não passavam, de tanta ansiedade. Enfim, enfim! Chegaram três horas da tarde: com cuidado para não rasgar o papel, eu me vesti de rosa.

Muitas coisas que me aconteceram tão piores que estas, eu já perdoei. No entanto essa não posso sequer entender agora: o jogo de dados de um destino é irracional? É impiedoso. Quando eu estava vestida de papel crepom todo armado, ainda com os cabelos enrolados e ainda sem batom e ruge - minha mãe de súbito piorou muito de saúde, um alvoroço repentino se criou em casa e mandaram-me comprar depressa um remédio na farmácia. Fui correndo vestida de rosa - mas o rosto ainda nu não tinha a máscara de moça que cobriria minha tão exposta vida infantil - fui correndo, correndo, perplexa, atônita, entre serpentinas, confetes e gritos de carnaval. A alegria dos outros me espantava.

Quando horas depois a atmosfera em casa acalmou-se, minha irmã me penteou e pintou-me. Mas alguma coisa tinha morrido em mim. E, como nas histórias que eu havia lido, sobre fadas que encantavam e desencantavam pessoas, eu fora desencantada; não era mais uma rosa, era de novo uma simples menina. Desci até a rua e ali de pé eu não era uma flor, era um palhaço pensativo de lábios encarnados. Na minha fome de sentir êxtase, às vezes começava a ficar alegre mas com remorso lembrava-me do estado grave de minha mãe e de novo eu morria.

Só horas depois é que veio a salvação. E se depressa agarrei-me a ela é porque tanto precisava me salvar. Um menino de uns 12 anos, o que para mim significava um rapaz, esse menino muito bonito parou diante de mim e, numa mistura de carinho, grossura, brincadeira e sensualidade, cobriu meus cabelos já lisos de confete: por um instante ficamos nos defrontando, sorrindo, sem falar. E eu então, mulherzinha de 8 anos, considerei pelo resto da noite que enfim alguém me havia reconhecido: eu era, sim, uma rosa.

Clarice Lispector

beats beatos beats

fluxo de consciência para atingir o inconsciente

a verdade inconsistente

Salvador Passos

Última Palavra

A última palavra é a palavra do poeta; a última palavra é a que fica.
A última palavra de Hamlet:
O resto é silêncio.
A última palavra de Júlio César:
Até tu, Brutus?
A última palavra de Jesus Cristo:
Meu pai, meu pai, por que me abandonaste?
A última palavra de Goethe:
Mais luz!
A última palavra de Booth, assassino de Lincoln:
Inútil, inútil…
E a última palavra de Prometeu:
Resisto!

Cena final da peço Liberdade, liberdade
Millor Fernandes e Flávio Rangel

Howl - Allen Ginsberg

Howl

For Carl Solomon

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,

a lost batallion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railway yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the universe instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving nothing behind but the shadow of dungarees and the larva and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but were prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the appartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of the Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts, who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for an Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturerson Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with the shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,

with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time—

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soulbetween 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,

and rose incarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


II

What sphinx of cement and aluminium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgement! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovas! Moloch whose factories dream and choke in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisable suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstacies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


III

Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland

         where you're madder than I am

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you must feel strange

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you imitate the shade of my mother

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you've murdered your twelve secretaries

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you laugh at this invisible humour

I'm with you in Rockland

         where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I'm with you in Rockland

         where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I'm with you in Rockland

         where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of actual pingpong of the abyss

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse

I'm with you in Rockland

         where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha

I'm with you in Rockland

         where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb

I'm with you in Rockland

         where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale

I'm with you in Rockland

         where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep

I'm with you in Rockland

         where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself   imaginary walls collapse   O skinny legions run outside   O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here   O victory forget your underwear we're free

I'm with you in Rockland

         in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

Foot Note to Howl

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!

Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!

The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!

The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!

Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cassady holy the unknown buggered and suffering beggars holy the hideous human angels!

Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks of the grandfathers of Kansas!

Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana hipsters peace peyote pipes & drums!

Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!

Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the middleclass! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebellion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!

Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria & Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers

Holy Moscow Holy Istanbul!

Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!

Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucinations holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the abyss!

Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours! bodies! suffering! magnanimity!

Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!

The Howl - Part II Moloch

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deus algum

deus

               algum

                               indu

                                              ogum

                                                             vishnu

precisa

                               da tua prece

tua pressa

             pessoa

só teu pulso

                     acelera

você padece

padecer

              te resta

tudo

               um belo dia

                                       desaparece

p.leminski

yo

yo en mí mismo
ismo en marasmo
asma en miasma
yo en yo mismo

Arnaldo Antunes

a medida das coisas

somos a medida de todas as coisas
(indevida medida)

incomensurável é a vida

o mundo:
o tudo e o nada
num mesmo segundo

Salvador Passos

Malditos

Colocamos nas palavras aquilo que elas são
As mesmas palavras podem dizer todas as coisas
As palavras dizem o que é e o que não é
Criamos Deus, por meio das palavras, e dissemos que somos seus filhos
Somos pais do nosso pai
O fato de não ser não mais importa
Pois se há idéia de um Deus que é
então há um Deus
Ou dito de outra forma:
o que há não é o Deus em si, mas a compaixão que colocamos na base da palavra
Tiramos de Deus aquilo que colocamos no seu nome
Se plantamos ódio é o que vamos colher
Como separar o joio do trigo
A transconsciência dos dizeres na morfologia operada pela poesia
Ficamos a margem de tudo esperando
Até o dia que alguém usando as mesmas ferramentas
corta galhos novos
vê na evidência da sombra dos dizeres
a luz que não contempla
fazendo treva em luz
não como os velhos na caverna sombria de Platão
O cego Homero com seus mitos viu além das sombras
Eis então que podemos matar ao Deus filho nosso pai
Como enfim fizemos na cruz
E mesmo tendo matado a palavra Deus
Ainda assim haverá um Deus filho
Um Deus que é pai e filho
As palavras são este Espírito Santo que voa pelos ares do pensar
As palavras se transformam no tempo
Como o pão em carne
Como o vinho em sangue
Só assim
Além das sombras
Pelos mitos
Pelo sonho é que somos
este transformar faz história e está nos mitos
Pois a verdade da verdade não está na verdade
A verdade está no poder dizer o que se quer dizer
E se fazer entender por completo com o pouco que se fala
Os poetas dizem o que ainda queda por ser dito
Dizem por meio de outras palavras as palavras que ainda não existem
Os poetas pais do Deus utópico
Filhos desta utopia mãe que é pai e filha
Filha das palavras sem pai
Filhas desta sombra sem árvore
Somos filhos de nós mesmos
Somos o que colocamos nas palavras
Os poetas dizem o não dito
Os malditos

Salvador Passos

A vida e as respostas

A vida é uma pergunta que não espera por respostas

Raimundo Beato

Incompletude

A maior riqueza do homem é a sua incompletude

Nesse ponto sou abastado.

Palavras que me acertam como sou – eu não aceito.

Não agüento ser apenas um sujeito que abre portas, 

que puxa válvulas, que olha o relógio, 

que compra pão às 6 horas da tarde, 

que vai lá fora, que aponta lápis, que vê a uva, etc, etc.

Perdoai.

Mas eu preciso ser Outros

Eu penso renovar o mundo usando borboletas.

 

Manoel de Barros