H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g

N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n

EILEEN MYLES

Basic August

Summer is endurable

you suggest &

I picked it up off

a wall in Cambridge

today or better

when the chlorine

drips from my

hair down my

back & the

five birds in

New York start to sing.

Brooklyn is just a

ride away. I’m hungry

again! While the ponytail

drips down my back &

I pull on the black

shirt that’s wet from

the pool, but so

what, it’s August and

the six birds in

New York sing back.

I wish I could

pull a devil mask over

my face. To be in-

visible & assertive,

to scare the hell

out of you. When

you pat my hand

take me all wrong,

make me squirm.

When I feel myself

falling backwards

in my skull

I’d rather race

outside, red &

heavy browed &

scare your thoughts

your pity to

kingdom come.

I’d laugh.

Or I have learned from

novels that you can

stare right through a

person. All the midriffs

of men I have bored

through this summer

in the sweaty subway

which is like

an intestine. I make

the beady eyes vanish

by boring through

like a train

or skipping upstairs.

You have never

wanted anything

I chide myself

as I am walking

through the tunnel.

Does anyone

ever “choose”

life. The ambitious

ones who get

in with both

their sneakers

soaking wet &

their big fangs

wanting all. Privately

I whistle, privately

I’m private. Do we

pound our fists down

like this and go

now, now I must

have for I am

truly here, Mankind!

Is Life perhaps

just another thing

that men own,

like the world

so not having

a greedy antenna

hanging between

my legs I don’t

know how to

insert myself

powerfully in

anything’s

path. It is

mine tonight,

and shut the

feeling out,

like a light

and in

the dark, get.

I like summer

cause it’s

just so hot.

There’s no excuse

for such an incessant

daily lack of

relief. The daily

woman with

her breast hanging

out and her

pussy in the

middle of

everything

bundled up

private. For I

must go to

work tonight

and in this

idle unfanned

hour I’ll sing

my song. Destiny’s

woman at last

in her chair.

If you saw

my heart hanging

out like the

devil face

grinning & pumping

away sweating

blood & grimacing

going ow ow

ow! Kind of

a furless

pussy, my heart.

My mother

tells me I am not

her son, my

sister says

that was not my

crime, being foolish

scaring the

mother with

the ugly daughter

mask, hands like

worms reaching

out to the

mother who

has just been

stone so

long that

how could

the mother

bear the

daughter, but

she did

the beautiful

ugly one

of summer

nights. Hungry

like this snake

of a city

reduced to

living stone.

Can you describe

in two syllables

the real

condition of

woman. Like hell!!

Would you

strike

your mother

with a stick

call her

bitch, witch

would you

beat her

till she

bled real

water from

her mouth.

The woman

made so many

men afraid,

her incredible

power & smarts.

They froze.

So one guy

said let’s tell

her she’s

incredibly

ugly, her

power, her

strength

her sexuality,

life coming

right out

of her loins,

let’s call

it pussy

let’s give

her a hysterectomy

let’s tell her

it’s so uncool

for girls

to be strong

let’s tell

her she’s

really ugly.

Fear freezes

me daily even

in this heat.

I pay a

bill I feel

better. I live

along. I get

ten bucks in

the mail. Heigh

dee ho. If

I could have

any wish

since I’m happening

since I’m really

seeing here

since I do

& listen. I believe

all the women

could be strong

& stand up &

lock hands

& bond. We

could save

ourselves

we could save everyone

we could be

here tonight

& I am.

I’ve got a

lot of good

ideas but not

one that

will get me

through

August.

OK, I admit

it. I’m a

devil-worshipper.

In a tourist

trap in Salem

Mass my sister

& my lover &

I did

a little dance

on a round

red circle

marked w/

names like

Beelzebub

& Company.

I have

the most

interesting

pattern of bouncing

shadow leaves

on my wall

at night. Through

a grid of

shadow window

gate, I

the grown child

wait for

sleep to

overtake me.

In my

devil dance

I began

to look at

the world. On

14^th Street

steam pouring

up out of

the street,

steam-pipes

says Sue

that’s why

14^th Street’s

so bad,

bumpy, or

else she

paused while

we looked.

It’s the gates

of hell.

Down Christopher

Street where

gayness is going

strong, screaming

drunken but

the pouring of

red-faced

horny souls

down the

street to

the river

where it’s also

black & hispanic

& we walk

out on a

Pier, I keep

wondering if

it’s okay for

David to be

down here

w/ a woman.

I usually do

this in the day

I explain

remember the

day that

Tim showed

me & Jane

the innards

of the fallen

down pier

building where

everyone stumbled

at dawn looking

for one more

blow job

I suppose.

I been

here, after

I chased

or actually

stumbled after

a girl at

Armageddon,

a club, or

saw you

plunge into

an icy

January Hudson

unlike now

inhaling David’s

cigarettes

watching Maxwell

house, not

even sighing.

When it’s time

to move

we both

know.

You the goddess

of 1988 take me

especial places.

Through burgeoning

Union Square

where I left

my bike &

you criticize

the way I

walk reminisce

about Larry

and you

teach me

about going

slow, each

foot, solid

on the ground

feel it first,

head up, a little

tilted, shoulder

back, clench

your pussy

lift your

butt, let

your shoulders

sway, arms

high. We

should be

in rhythm

it’s how

you walk

with a

person. Are

you ruining

me as we

approach our

2^nd year

together &

I’m comfortably

in training

to be right

for you

or us, though

I like the

way I

walk alone,

the love

affair

I never

share but

you with

the itsy

bitsy light

of Gramercy

Park it’s

great we

still kiss

at corners

in recognition

of trees &

the good

air they

exude. Hot-ter

tomorrow,

a Korean

man assures

his friend.

Friday night

we take

our walk.

The streets

“Dom Perignon

Khaddafy”—you

reminisce

about heroin.

Jean Michel

died this

week. Under

thirty. I

haven’t

failed to

be walking

breathing poor,

the fashion

ensemble into

the artichoke

sculpture junk-yard

of Gas-station,

2 Boots is

closed so

we walk to

the hat &

talk about

Zoe who

lives near

here, &