***Beat Poet’s Corner – The Gangster Poet Cometh – With Gregory Corso’s Destiny In Mind

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

… a man came running down the stairs of some sad sack, no elevator, long gone, brownstone ready for the wrecker’s’ ball, wild-haired, throwing off devil brown hair that wouldn’t stay down, devil brown-eyed, swarthy brown skin fresh from some Adriatic Sea port dream sunning, smirks, half-dressed, shirt open, pants fly open like maybe he had just finished up some hurried sex with his best friend’s wife (she all alabaster white from an all alabaster white world and so fixated on some dark-skinned kicks to while away some lonely afternoons yet afraid to take on anything more exotic than a rarified specimen of the “white negro”), and that best friend was now walking up Canal Street in 1950s New Jack City ready to be greeted by that ever- loving wife (and maybe grab a little piece of her, a little something that night when he told her that he had seen a vision of Buddha on MacDougall Street and that might stir some kama sutra thoughts) once he walks up the six flights to their honeymoon-like cold water flat, cockroach friendly, the flat that is, not the best friend. Or maybe, a different take, the same wild-haired man, maybe open pants fly open having just come from some boyfriend (hey, it is the Village you know, okay), or stray pick-up back alley after being drip-dried. See , he had that wild-eyed look for that hunger too, that boy hunger, hell for all human hungers if you looked closely, he frantic, muttering, yes, muttering a mile a minute words, machine gun gangster muttering those words, ashes in the mouth words like truth, beauty, age, wisdom, the veda, the Buddha truth, the karma sutra, the act of contrition, six hail marys and this, throw them all out and start fresh, start fresh with the new beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday, beatitude truth.

He, that selfsame man with the tricky zipper, muttering death of god truth, beat down old gringo man god truth, muttering against false prophets (a slew of them, check the Old Testament if you dare) truth, muttering quietly just then some new truth, a truth worth pondering. Making words sing a new way, making the starless night turn into some back alley episode complete with libretto (so maybe it was a boy and not some foreboding alabaster virgin queen in that scene), probably sexual but possibly just a sweet child jack-roll like his, his older corner boy, now home boy, now amigo, now long gone daddy, walking daddy showed him by the numbers, mark the mark, see his moves, seek a dark alley, hit just below the back of the knees, take the roll, and then flee, beautiful, a work of art like some old time three penny beggar’s opera. Then swig some wine, wino, beat juice of light, elixir of the gods, the juice that makes those golden-flecked words sing that new way, that new staccato beat, with a shade of discord between each beat to strike the new age tone, to break, jail-break from old time Eliot coffee spoons and Lowell ennui. And new blasphemy rock three chord beats that defy discord. But don’t tell the foundling starting to accumulate on the ground that. That’s the ticket, just tell them to take the ride.

And so he rode the el, rode it as far as he could out to Far Rockaway and some seamless seas, seven was it, flipped back and rode to the bridge, the GW, picked up the pike and began his merry adventure west, west of Seventh Avenue shadows, west of Village cop-outs, cope-out and stray errant alabaster white wives looking for afternoon kicks and best friends seeking nirvana, and west of sad old wines and cigarette stubs, early morning salvation stubs, relit, and greasy spoon half breakfasts (hold the eggs, hold the toast, hold the bacon, coffee strong, black as that starless back alley night, a small piece of English muffin slathered with marmalade, orange that’s all a wine stomach can hold in the search night), and breath in some fresh new scene, although he had made that trip a few times before, before he met up with some amigos, some kindred, also heading west, and all seeking beat, beat without that dissonance and without the high strung new wave guitar busting old time cool Dizzy jazz all to hell. So west, so Greeley west.

West through Jersey get-away portals, New Jack City get away, get away from nigras (although he himself a white negro, so watch out brother), spics, dagos, greeks, jews, all the them of the teeming city, banished to pure Whitesville, down on splash Jersey shores, then veer left to the Ohios, and that damn hammering of steel, of plate against plate, of meshes and mixes to make a toxic society filled with gewgaws, unrequited loves, and sweaty night miseries, and then move on like those intrepid pioneer wagon boy and girls did when the soil gave out, or the law came too close, or the neighbors too, juts pick up and run, run to cleaner soils, or new soils to damage anyway. West brother west to the Kansases and their wheat stacks and simply good manners. Don’t tarry long there though Aunt Betty has her eye on you, and on your wicked ways, and your obvious daughter lusts, but stop, stop please for homemade pie and beef stews that will put some old hobo olio to shame, Aunt Betty shame as she eyes you for herself out in the lonesome prairie wind night.

Westward to the Rockies and pure snow (no not that snow, heaven-sent snow or hell-bent blind snow) and craggy ridge fantasies in the snow-capped night. Westward more to dinosaur lament caverns and arroyos where the ghost, the no kidding ghost of ancient warrior princes cry out against the white bandito night, cry out vengeance for the stolen lands, the ranchero lands, spitting upon ancient ancestral right. West Winnemucca west better left unsaid standing almost sleep-walking in that downtown bus station at four in the morning trying to pick up some whore, or some dear miscreant Flossie to keep the night dry and a pillow under his head. Yah better left unsaid and in any case he was smelling, New York city boy smelling like some Far Rockaway dream, something that smelled of oceans, of seas, of blue-green flapping waves and be done with dry bone arroyos, rios, montes, and the whole Spanish land claim, Jesus. Then the heaven west, the span, the golden span, shimmering in the blue-grey pacific night (and that was how he was feeling too). Sweet Frisco town, a fresh beginning, fresh currents, fresh be-bop streets unexplored, virgin-like to his touch, Bay Street, Post, California , Geary, home from home as the fog drifted out into the bay. He could write one million gunsel sonnets, two million free verses about the place and still have room for more if he could avoid certain distractions, certain character defects some long ago mother, or mother superior had told him about and then…

… a man came running down the stairs of some sad sack, no elevator, long gone, adobe stone building ready for the wrecker’s’ ball, wild-haired, throwing off devil brown hair that wouldn’t stay down, devil brown-eyed, smirks, half-dressed, shirt open, pants fly open like maybe he had just finished up some hurried sex with his next best friend’s wife and that next best friend was now walking up Post Street in Frisco town ready to be greeted by that ever -loving wife once he walks up the four flights to their honeymoon-like cold water flat, cockroach friendly, the flat that is, not the friend. Or maybe, same wild-haired man, different take, maybe open pants fly open having just come from some boyfriend (hey, it’s Frisco town, okay, land’s end anything goes), or stray pick-up back alley after being drip-dried, he had that wild-eyed look for that hunger too, that boy hunger, hell for all human hungers if you looked closely, he frantic, muttering, yes, muttering a mile a minute words, machine gun gangster muttering those words, ashes in the mouth words like truth, beauty, age, wisdom, the veda, the Buddha truth, the karma sutra, the act of contrition, six hail marys and this, throw them all out and start fresh, start fresh with the new beat down, beat around, beat six ways to Sunday, beatitude truth.

…and hence Gregory Corso.