55Ah old angel of midnight I cant hear myself think for all your scur racket the lead in yr pencil on simple asinine page so noisy what’s a man gonna think of this unless the rumble house black as snow horizon train brings back all our favored dead from furnace & somebody furnish—Ah car, a human directing his tatismatatagolre thru Holland to find the Dutch Imprimatur to his Helem, the Helm & Cross of Charlemagne Euron Irope that meant no more no less that Quebekois Canoe (Kebokoa Kano)—Kak! But rumble will the devil his will’s unspoken, God wont truck helicopters to peek-at-wisdom Vulture Queen, nor will the red dog that glitters at the fish queen of my heart reach for kite hook or Dahlenberg drent it any different for by the great God Jesus I will not rest no wont rest till Ferlinghetti’s dog his day had does piss again on hydrant hydramatic stillness electrical ectroid where for sure cats of the stripe so proud & vainty do vaunt for to bring the final jumpmonkey home to Marpa’s bird sing—Ah translate me that—Cook! Dog echo in the sandbank valley Northport rumble Mahayana the diamond Vajrayana path that was trod here long ago before those houses jewel-graced the seaside hill, & for Krissakes no sound at all comes in this window except those Wolf Hourses got tamming bringing white & gray pearl hearses thru the shoot rain to munner munner munner, O fat eater in the drape son push yr belly back, the tape worm—& worms to measure you, long tape—sod & sand over yr bluenose disdain, Mrs America, the Indian’s Ya Ya Henna, the Indian Uprising known as the Beat Generation, is going to eat rails & make tire sandwiches of every junkyard misty rust & all old heroes’ eyes in barley Soup of time—to be sopped with eye sop—So carry on, escaper, jail’s only made to flee—

The wush of trees on yonder eastern nabathaque Latin Walden axe-haiku of hill where woodsman Mahomet perceives will soon adown the morning drear to pail the bringup well suspender farmer trap moon so’s cock go Bloody yurgle in the distance where Timmy hides, flat, looking with his eyes for purr me—O Angel, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party, & ah Angel dont paperparty me, but make me honified in silken Honen honeyrubbéd Oxen tongue of Cow Kiss, Ant Mat, silk girl ran, & all the monkey-better-than secondary women of Sam Sarah the Sang of Blood this earth, this tool, this fool, look with your eyes, I’m tired of fooling O Angel bring it to me THE MAGIC SOUND OF SILENCE broken by first-bird’s teepaleep——