a shot and photograph the blue miracle as life pours back into that walking corpse—That will give you the image track of junk—Now project the blue change onto your own face if you want The Big Fix. The sound track is even easier—I quote from Newsweek, March 4, 1963 Science section: “Every substance has a characteristic set of resonant frequencies at which it vibrates or oscillates.”—So you record the frequency of junk as it hits the junk-sick brain cells—
“What’s that?—Brain waves are 32 or under and can’t be heard? Well speed them up, God damn it—And instead of one junky concentrate me a thousand—Let there be Lexington and call a nice Jew in to run it—”
Doctor Wilhelm Reich has isolated and concentrated a unit that he calls “the orgone”—Orgones, according to W. Reich, are the units of life—They have been photographed and the color is blue—So junk sops up the orgones and that’s why they need all these young junkies—They have more orgones and give higher yield of the blue concentrate on which Martin and his boys can nod out a thousand years—Martin is stealing your orgones—You going to stand still for this shit?
So Pack Your Ermines
SO PACK YOUR ERMINES
“So pack your ermines, Mary—We are getting out of here right now—I’ve seen this happen before—The marks are coming up on us—And the heat is moving in—Recollect when I was traveling with Limestone John on The Carbonic Caper—It worked like this:: He rents an amphitheatre with marble walls he is a stone painter you dig can create a frieze while you wait—So he puts on a diving suit like the old Surrealist Lark and I am up on a high pedestal pumping the air to him—Well, he starts painting on the limestone walls with hydrochloric acid and jetting himself around with air blasts he can cover the wall in ten seconds, carbon dioxide settling down on the marks begin to cough and loosen their collars.”
“But what is he painting?”
“Why it’s arrg a theatre full of people suffocating—”
So we turn the flops over and move on—If you keep it practical they can’t hang a nova rap on you—Well, we hit this town and right away I don’t like it.
“Something here, John—Something wrong—I can feel it—”
But he says I just have the copper jitters since the nova heat moved in—Besides we are cool, just rolling flops is all three thousand years in show business—So he sets up his amphitheatre in a quarry and begins lining up the women clubs and poets and window dressers and organizes this “Culture Fest” he calls it and I am up in the cabin of a crane pumping the air to him—Well the marks are packing in, the old dolls covered with ice and sapphires and emeralds all really magnificent—So I think maybe I was wrong and everything is cool when I see like fifty young punks have showed in aqualungs carrying fish spears and without thinking I yell out from the crane:
“Izzy The Push—Sammy The Butcher—Hey Rube!”
Meanwhile I have forgotten the air pump and The Carbonic Kid is turning blue and trying to say something—I rush and pump some air to him and he yells:
“No! No! No!”
I see other marks are coming on with static and camera guns, Sammy and the boys are not making it—These kids have pulled the reverse switch—At this point The Blue Dinosaur himself charged out to discover what the beef is and starts throwing his magnetic spirals at the rubes—They just moved back ahead of him until he runs out of charge and stops. Next thing the nova heat slipped antibiotic handcuffs on all of us.
NABORHOOD IN AQUALUNGS
I was traveling with Merit John on The Carbonic Caper—Larceny with a crew of shoppers—And this number comes over the air to him—So he starts painting The D Fence last Spring—And shitting himself around with air blasts in Hicksville—Stopped ten seconds and our carbon dioxide gave out and we began to cough for such a purpose suffocating under a potted palm in the lobby—
“Move on, you dig, copping out ‘The Fish Poison Con—’”
“I got you—Keep it practical and they can’t—”
Transported back to South America we hit this town and right away being stung by the dreaded John—He never missed—Burned three thousand years in me playing cop and quarry—So the marks are packing in virus and subject to dissolve and everything is cool—Assimilate ice sapphires and emeralds all regular—So I walk in about fifty young punks—Sammy and the boys are all he had—One fix—Pulled the reverse switch—Traveling store closing so I don’t work like this—John set my medications—Nagasaki in acid on the walls faded out under the rubber trees—He can cover feet back to 1910—We could buy it settling down—Lay up in the Chink laundry on the collars—
“But what stale rooming house flesh—”
Cradles old troupers—Like Cleopatra applying the asp hang a Nova Rap on you—
“Lush?—I don’t like it—Empty pockets in the worn metal—Feel it?”
But John says: “Copper jitters since the space sell—The old doll is covered—”
Heavy and calm holding cool leather armchair—Organizes this wispy mustache—I stopped in front of a mirror—Really magnificent in a starched collar—It is a naborhood in aqualungs with free lunch everywhere yell out “Sweet Sixteen”—I walked without Izzy The Push—
“Hey Rube!!”
Came to the Chinese laundry meanwhile—I have forgotten the Chink in front—Fix words hatch The Blue Dinosaur—I was reading them back magnetic—Only way to orient yourself—Traveling with the Chink kid John set throat like already written—“Stone Reading” we call it in the trade—While you wait he packs in Rome—I’ve checked the diving suit like every night—Up on a high pedestal perform this unnatural act—In acid on the walls—Set your watch by it—So that gives us twenty marks out through the side window and collars—
“But what in St. Louis?”
Memory picture coming in—So we turn over silver sets and banks and clubs as old troupers—Nova Rap on you that night as we walked out—I don’t like it—Something picking up laundry and my flesh feel it—
But John says: “Afternoon copper jitters since the caper—Housebreaking can cause this—”
We are cool just rolling—when things go wrong once—show business—We can’t find poets and organize this cut and the flesh won’t work—And there we are with the air off like beached idiots—Well I think maybe kicks from our condition—They took us—The old dolls on a train burning junk—Thawing flesh showed in aqualungs—Steam a yell out from the crane—
“Hey Rube!!”
Three silver digits explode—Meanwhile I have forgotten streets of Madrid—And clear as sunlight pump some air to him and he said: “Que tal Henrique?”
I am standing through an invisible door click the air to him—Well we hit this town and right away aphrodisiac ointment—
“Doc goofed here, John—Something wrong—Too much Spanish—”
“What? It’s green see? A green theatre—”
So
