THE POOL PLAYERS. 
                   SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
   The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
   The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
   Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
   And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
   The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
   And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
   The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
   He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
   Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
   He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more—that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

Here bygynneth the Book of the tales of Caunterbury

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, 
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
And bathed every veyne in swich licóur 
Of which vertú engendred is the flour; 
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth 
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne, 
And smale foweles maken melodye, 
That slepen al the nyght with open ye, 
So priketh hem Natúre in hir corages, 
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages, 
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, 
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes; 
And specially, from every shires ende 
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The hooly blisful martir for to seke, 
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 


Bifil that in that seson on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 
At nyght were come into that hostelrye 
Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye 
Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle 
In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, 
That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 
The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 
And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
And shortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 
So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 
That I was of hir felaweshipe anon, 
And made forward erly for to ryse, 
To take oure wey, ther as I yow devyse. 


But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 
Er that I ferther in this tale pace, 
Me thynketh it acordaunt to resoun 
To telle yow al the condicioun 
Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 
And whiche they weren and of what degree, 
And eek in what array that they were inne; 
And at a Knyght than wol I first bigynne. 


A Knyght ther was, and that a worthy man, 
That fro the tyme that he first bigan 
To riden out, he loved chivalrie, 
Trouthe and honóur, fredom and curteisie. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
And thereto hadde he riden, no man ferre, 
As wel in cristendom as in hethenesse, 
And evere honóured for his worthynesse. 
At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne; 
Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 
Aboven alle nacions in Pruce. 
In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruce,— 
No cristen man so ofte of his degree. 
In Gernade at the seege eek hadde he be 
Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. 
At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 
Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See 
At many a noble armee hadde he be. 


At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 
And foughten for oure feith at Tramyssene 
In lyste thries, and ay slayn his foo. 
This ilke worthy knyght hadde been also 
Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 
Agayn another hethen in Turkye; 
And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 
And though that he were worthy, he was wys, 
And of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
He nevere yet no vileynye ne sayde, 
In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 
He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght. 


But for to tellen yow of his array, 
His hors weren goode, but he was nat gay; 
Of fustian he wered a gypon 
Al bismótered with his habergeon; 
For he was late y-come from his viage, 
And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 


With hym ther was his sone, a yong Squiér, 
A lovyere and a lusty bacheler, 
With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
Of his statúre he was of evene lengthe, 
And wonderly delyvere and of greet strengthe. 
And he hadde been somtyme in chyvachie 
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, 
And born hym weel, as of so litel space, 
In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
Embrouded was he, as it were a meede 
Al ful of fresshe floures whyte and reede. 
Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day; 
He was as fressh as is the month of May. 
Short was his gowne, with sleves longe and wyde; 
Wel koude he sitte on hors and faire ryde; 
He koude songes make and wel endite, 
Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write. 
So hoote he lovede that by nyghtertale 
He sleep namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 
Curteis he was, lowely and servysáble, 
And carf biforn his fader at the table. 


A Yeman hadde he and servántz namo 
At that tyme, for hym liste ride soo; 
And he was clad in cote and hood of grene. 
A sheef of pecock arwes bright and kene, 
Under his belt he bar ful thriftily— 
Wel koude he dresse his takel yemanly; 
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe— 
And in his hand he baar a myghty bowe. 
A not-heed hadde he, with a broun viságe. 
Of woodecraft wel koude he al the uságe. 
Upon his arm he baar a gay bracér, 
And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, 
And on that oother syde a gay daggere, 
Harneised wel and sharp as point of spere; 
A Cristophere on his brest of silver sheene. 
An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene. 
A forster was he, soothly as I gesse. 


Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hir smylyng was ful symple and coy; 
Hire gretteste ooth was but by seinte Loy, 
And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, 
Entuned in hir nose ful semely; 
And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle: 
She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, 
Ne wette hir fyngres in hir sauce depe. 
Wel koude she carie a morsel and wel kepe 
Thát no drope ne fille upon hire brist; 
In curteisie was set ful muchel hir list. 
Hire over-lippe wyped she so clene 
That in hir coppe ther was no ferthyng sene 
Of grece, whan she dronken hadde hir draughte. 
Ful semely after hir mete she raughte. 
And sikerly she was of greet desport, 
And ful plesáunt and amyable of port, 
And peyned hire to countrefete cheere 
Of court, and been estatlich of manere, 
And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
But for to speken of hire conscience, 
She was so charitable and so pitous 
She wolde wepe if that she saugh a mous 
Kaught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
Of smale houndes hadde she, that she fedde 
With rosted flessh, or milk and wastel breed; 
But soore wepte she if oon of hem were deed, 
Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte; 
And al was conscience and tendre herte. 


Ful semyly hir wympul pynched was; 
Hire nose tretys, her eyen greye as glas, 
Hir mouth ful smal and ther-to softe and reed; 
But sikerly she hadde a fair forheed; 
It was almoost a spanne brood, I trowe; 
For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. 
Ful fetys was hir cloke, as I was war; 
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar 
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene, 
And ther-on heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, 
On which ther was first write a crowned A, 
And after, Amor vincit omnia. 


Another Nonne with hire hadde she, 
That was hire chapeleyne, and Preestes thre. 


A Monk ther was, a fair for the maistrie, 
An outridere, that lovede venerie; 
A manly man, to been an abbot able. 
Ful many a deyntee hors hadde he in stable; 
And whan he rood, men myghte his brydel heere 
Gýnglen in a whistlynge wynd als cleere, 
And eek as loude, as dooth the chapel belle, 
Ther as this lord was kepere of the celle. 
The reule of seint Maure or of seint Beneit, 
By-cause that it was old and som-del streit,— 
This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace, 
And heeld after the newe world the space. 
He yaf nat of that text a pulled hen 
That seith that hunters ben nat hooly men, 
Ne that a monk, whan he is recchelees, 
Is likned til a fissh that is waterlees,— 
This is to seyn, a monk out of his cloystre. 
But thilke text heeld he nat worth an oystre; 
And I seyde his opinioun was good. 
What sholde he studie and make hymselven wood, 
Upon a book in cloystre alwey to poure, 
Or swynken with his handes and labóure, 
As Austyn bit? How shal the world be served? 
Lat Austyn have his swynk to him reserved. 
Therfore he was a prikasour aright: 
Grehoundes he hadde, as swift as fowel in flight; 
Of prikyng and of huntyng for the hare 
Was al his lust, for no cost wolde he spare. 
I seigh his sleves y-púrfiled at the hond 
With grys, and that the fyneste of a lond; 
And for to festne his hood under his chyn 
He hadde of gold y-wroght a curious pyn; 
A love-knotte in the gretter ende ther was. 
His heed was balled, that shoon as any glas, 
And eek his face, as he hadde been enoynt. 
He was a lord ful fat and in good poynt; 
His eyen stepe, and rollynge in his heed, 
That stemed as a forneys of a leed; 
His bootes souple, his hors in greet estaat. 
Now certeinly he was a fair prelaat. 
He was nat pale, as a forpyned goost: 
A fat swan loved he best of any roost. 
His palfrey was as broun as is a berye. 


A Frere ther was, a wantowne and a merye, 
A lymytour, a ful solémpne man. 
In alle the ordres foure is noon that kan 
So muchel of daliaunce and fair langage. 
He hadde maad ful many a mariage 
Of yonge wommen at his owene cost. 
Unto his ordre he was a noble post. 
Ful wel biloved and famulier was he 
With frankeleyns over al in his contree, 
And eek with worthy wommen of the toun; 
For he hadde power of confessioun, 
As seyde hym-self, moore than a curát, 
For of his ordre he was licenciat. 
Ful swetely herde he confessioun, 
And plesaunt was his absolucioun. 
He was an esy man to yeve penaunce 
There as he wiste to have a good pitaunce; 
For unto a povre ordre for to yive 
Is signe that a man is wel y-shryve; 
For, if he yaf, he dorste make avaunt 
He wiste that a man was répentaunt; 
For many a man so hard is of his herte 
He may nat wepe al-thogh hym soore smerte. 
Therfore in stede of wepynge and preyéres 
Men moote yeve silver to the povre freres. 
His typet was ay farsed full of knyves 
And pynnes, for to yeven faire wyves. 
And certeinly he hadde a murye note: 
Wel koude he synge and pleyen on a rote; 
Of yeddynges he baar outrely the pris. 
His nekke whit was as the flour-de-lys; 
Ther-to he strong was as a champioun. 
He knew the tavernes wel in every toun, 
And everich hostiler and tappestere 
Bet than a lazar or a beggestere; 
For unto swich a worthy man as he 
Acorded nat, as by his facultee, 
To have with sike lazars aqueyntaunce; 
It is nat honest, it may nat avaunce 
Fór to deelen with no swich poraille, 
But al with riche and selleres of vitaille. 
And over-al, ther as profit sholde arise, 
Curteis he was and lowely of servyse. 
Ther nas no man nowher so vertuous. 
He was the beste beggere in his hous; 
[And yaf a certeyn ferme for the graunt, 
Noon of his brethren cam ther in his haunt;] 
For thogh a wydwe hadde noght a sho, 
So plesaunt was his In principio, 
Yet wolde he have a ferthyng er he wente: 
His purchas was wel bettre than his rente. 
And rage he koude, as it were right a whelpe. 
In love-dayes ther koude he muchel helpe, 
For there he was nat lyk a cloysterer 
With a thredbare cope, as is a povre scolér, 
But he was lyk a maister, or a pope; 
Of double worstede was his semycope, 
That rounded as a belle, out of the presse. 
Somwhat he lipsed for his wantownesse, 
To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge; 
And in his harpyng, whan that he hadde songe, 
His eyen twynkled in his heed aryght 
As doon the sterres in the frosty nyght. 
This worthy lymytour was cleped Hubérd. 


A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, 
In motteleye, and hye on horse he sat; 
Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bevere hat; 
His bootes clasped faire and fetisly. 
His resons he spak ful solémpnely, 
Sownynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng. 
He wolde the see were kept for any thing 
Bitwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. 
Wel koude he in eschaunge sheeldes selle. 
This worthy man ful wel his wit bisette; 
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette, 
So estatly was he of his gouvernaunce, 
With his bargaynes and with his chevyssaunce. 
For sothe he was a worthy man with-alle, 
But, sooth to seyn, I noot how men hym calle. 


A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also, 
That unto logyk hadde longe y-go. 
As leene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he nas nat right fat, I undertake, 
But looked holwe, and ther-to sobrely. 
Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy; 
For he hadde geten hym yet no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to have office; 
For hym was lévere háve at his beddes heed 
Twénty bookes, clad in blak or reed, 
Of Aristotle and his philosophie, 
Than robes riche, or fíthele, or gay sautrie. 
But al be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 
But al that he myghte of his freendes hente 
On bookes and on lernynge he it spente, 
And bisily gan for the soules preye 
Of hem that yaf hym wher-with to scoleye. 
Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede. 
Noght o word spak he moore than was neede; 
And that was seyd in forme and reverence, 
And short and quyk and ful of hy senténce. 
Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche; 
And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche. 


A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde been at the Parvys, 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 
Discreet he was, and of greet reverence— 
He semed swich, his wordes weren so wise. 
Justice he was ful often in assise, 
By patente, and by pleyn commissioun. 
For his science and for his heigh renoun, 
Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 
So greet a purchasour was nowher noon: 
Al was fee symple to hym in effect; 
His purchasyng myghte nat been infect. 
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas, 
And yet he semed bisier than he was. 
In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle 
That from the tyme of kyng William were falle. 
Ther-to he koude endite and make a thyng, 
Ther koude no wight pynche at his writyng; 
And every statut koude he pleyn by rote. 
He rood but hoomly in a medlee cote, 
Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale; 
Of his array telle I no lenger tale. 


A Frankeleyn was in his compaignye. 
Whit was his berd as is the dayesye; 
Of his complexioun he was sangwyn. 
Wel loved he by the morwe a sop in wyn; 
To lyven in delit was evere his wone, 
For he was Epicurus owene sone, 
That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit 
Was verraily felicitee parfit. 
An housholdere, and that a greet, was he; 
Seint Julian he was in his contree. 
His breed, his ale, was alweys after oon; 
A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. 
Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, 
Of fissh and flessh, and that so plentevous, 
It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, 
Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke, 
After the sondry sesons of the yeer; 
So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 
Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe, 
And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. 
Wo was his cook but if his sauce were 
Poynaunt and sharp, and redy al his geere. 
His table dormant in his halle alway 
Stood redy covered al the longe day. 
At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire; 
Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. 
An anlaas, and a gipser al of silk, 
Heeng at his girdel, whit as morne milk. 
A shirreve hadde he been, and a countour; 
Was nowher such a worthy vavasour. 


An Haberdasshere, and a Carpenter, 
A Webbe, a Dyere, and a Tapycer,— 
And they were clothed alle in o lyveree 
Of a solémpne and a greet fraternitee. 
Ful fressh and newe hir geere apiked was; 
Hir knyves were chaped noght with bras, 
But al with silver; wroght ful clene and weel 
Hire girdles and hir pouches everydeel. 
Wel semed ech of hem a fair burgeys 
To sitten in a yeldehalle, on a deys. 
Éverich, for the wisdom that he kan, 
Was shaply for to been an alderman; 
For catel hadde they ynogh and rente, 
And eek hir wyves wolde it wel assente, 
And elles certeyn were they to blame. 
It is ful fair to been y-cleped Madame, 
And goon to vigilies al bifore, 
And have a mantel roialliche y-bore. 


A Cook they hadde with hem for the nones, 
To boille the chiknes with the marybones, 
And poudre-marchant tart, and galyngale. 
Wel koude he knowe a draughte of Londoun ale. 
He koude rooste, and sethe, and broille, and frye, 
Máken mortreux, and wel bake a pye. 
But greet harm was it, as it thoughte me, 
That on his shyne a mormal hadde he; 
For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. 


A Shipman was ther, wonynge fer by weste; 
For aught I woot he was of Dertemouthe. 
He rood upon a rouncy, as he kouthe, 
In a gowne of faldyng to the knee. 
A daggere hangynge on a laas hadde he 
Aboute his nekke, under his arm adoun. 
The hoote somer hadde maad his hewe al broun; 
And certeinly he was a good felawe. 
Ful many a draughte of wyn hadde he y-drawe 
Fro Burdeux-ward, whil that the chapman sleep. 
Of nyce conscience took he no keep. 
If that he faught and hadde the hyer hond, 
By water he sente hem hoom to every lond. 
But of his craft to rekene wel his tydes, 
His stremes, and his daungers hym bisides, 
His herberwe and his moone, his lode-menage, 
Ther nas noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. 
Hardy he was and wys to undertake; 
With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake. 
He knew alle the havenes, as they were, 
From Gootlond to the Cape of Fynystere, 
And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne. 
His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. 


With us ther was a Doctour of Phisik; 
In all this world ne was ther noon hym lik, 
To speke of phisik and of surgerye; 
For he was grounded in astronomye. 
He kepte his pacient a ful greet deel 
In houres, by his magyk natureel. 
Wel koude he fortunen the ascendent 
Of his ymáges for his pacient. 
He knew the cause of everich maladye, 
Were it of hoot, or cold, or moyste, or drye, 
And where they engendred and of what humour. 
He was a verray, parfit praktisour; 
The cause y-knowe, and of his harm the roote, 
Anon he yaf the sike man his boote. 
Ful redy hadde he his apothecaries 
To sende him drogges and his letuaries; 
For ech of hem made oother for to wynne, 
Hir frendshipe nas nat newe to bigynne. 
Wel knew he the olde Esculapius, 
And De{"y}scorides, and eek Rufus, 
Old Ypocras, Haly, and Galyen, 
Serapion, Razis, and Avycen, 
Averrois, Damascien, and Constantyn, 
Bernard, and Gatesden, and Gilbertyn. 
Of his diete mesurable was he, 
For it was of no superfluitee, 
But of greet norissyng and digestíble. 
His studie was but litel on the Bible. 
In sangwyn and in pers he clad was al, 
Lyned with taffata and with sendal. 
And yet he was but esy of dispence; 
He kepte that he wan in pestilence. 
For gold in phisik is a cordial; 
Therfore he lovede gold in special. 


A Good Wif was ther of biside Bathe, 
But she was som-del deef, and that was scathe. 
Of clooth-makyng she hadde swich an haunt 
She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt. 
In al the parisshe wif ne was ther noon 
That to the offrynge bifore hire sholde goon; 
And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she 
That she was out of alle charitee. 
Hir coverchiefs ful fyne weren of ground; 
I dorste swere they weyeden ten pound 
That on a Sonday weren upon hir heed. 
Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed, 
Ful streite y-teyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe. 
Boold was hir face, and fair, and reed of hewe. 
She was a worthy womman al hir lyve; 
Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve, 
Withouten oother compaignye in youthe; 
But ther-of nedeth nat to speke as nowthe. 
And thries hadde she been at Jérusalem; 
She hadde passed many a straunge strem; 
At Rome she hadde been, and at Boloigne, 
In Galice at Seint Jame, and at Coloigne. 
She koude muchel of wandrynge by the weye. 
Gat-tothed was she, soothly for to seye. 
Upon an amblere esily she sat, 
Y-wympled wel, and on hir heed an hat 
As brood as is a bokeler or a targe; 
A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, 
And on hire feet a paire of spores sharpe. 
In felaweshipe wel koude she laughe and carpe; 
Of remedies of love she knew per chauncé, 
For she koude of that art the olde daunce. 


A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a povre Person of a Toun; 
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
That Cristes Gospel trewely wolde preche; 
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benygne he was, and wonder diligent, 
And in adversitee ful pacient; 
And swich he was y-preved ofte sithes. 
Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes, 
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
Unto his povre parisshens aboute, 
Of his offrýng and eek of his substaunce; 
He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce. 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder, 
But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder, 
In siknesse nor in meschief to visíte 
The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite, 
Upon his feet, and in his hand a staf. 
This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf, 
That first he wroghte and afterward he taughte. 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte; 
And this figure he added eek therto, 
That if gold ruste, what shal iren doo? 
For if a preest be foul, on whom we truste, 
No wonder is a lewed man to ruste; 
And shame it is, if a prest take keep, 
A shiten shepherde and a clene sheep. 
Wel oghte a preest ensample for to yive 
By his clennesse how that his sheep sholde lyve. 
He sette nat his benefice to hyre 
And leet his sheep encombred in the myre, 
And ran to Londoun, unto Seinte Poules, 
To seken hym a chaunterie for soules, 
Or with a bretherhed to been withholde; 
But dwelte at hoom and kepte wel his folde, 
So that the wolf ne made it nat myscarie; 
He was a shepherde, and noght a mercenarie. 
And though he hooly were and vertuous, 
He was to synful man nat despitous, 
Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 
But in his techyng díscreet and benygne. 
To drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse, 
By good ensample, this was his bisynesse. 
But it were any persone obstinat, 
What so he were, of heigh or lough estat, 
Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys. 
A bettre preest I trowe that nowher noon ys. 
He waited after no pompe and reverence, 
Ne maked him a spiced conscience; 
But Cristes loore and his apostles twelve 
He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve. 


With hym ther was a Plowman, was his brother, 
That hadde y-lad of dong ful many a fother; 
A trewe swynkere and a good was he, 
Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee. 
God loved he best, with al his hoole herte, 
At alle tymes, thogh him gamed or smerte. 
And thanne his neighebor right as hymselve. 
He wolde thresshe, and therto dyke and delve, 
For Cristes sake, for every povre wight, 
Withouten hire, if it lay in his myght. 
His tithes payede he ful faire and wel, 
Bothe of his propre swynk and his catel. 
In a tabard he rood upon a mere. 


Ther was also a Reve and a Millere, 
A Somnour and a Pardoner also, 
A Maunciple, and myself,—ther were namo. 


The Millere was a stout carl for the nones; 
Ful byg he was of brawn and eek of bones. 
That proved wel, for over-al, ther he cam, 
At wrastlynge he wolde have alwey the ram. 
He was short-sholdred, brood, a thikke knarre; 
Ther nas no dore that he nolde heve of harre, 
Or breke it at a rennyng with his heed. 
His berd as any sowe or fox was reed, 
And therto brood, as though it were a spade. 
Upon the cop right of his nose he hade 
A werte, and thereon stood a toft of herys, 
Reed as the brustles of a sowes erys; 
His nosethirles blake were and wyde. 
A swerd and a bokeler bar he by his syde. 
His mouth as greet was as a greet forneys; 
He was a janglere and a goliardeys, 
And that was moost of synne and harlotries. 
Wel koude he stelen corn and tollen thries; 
And yet he hadde a thombe of gold, pardee. 
A whit cote and a blew hood wered he. 
A baggepipe wel koude he blowe and sowne, 
And therwithal he broghte us out of towne. 


A gentil Maunciple was ther of a temple, 
Of which achátours myghte take exemple 
For to be wise in byynge of vitaille; 
For, wheither that he payde or took by taille, 
Algate he wayted so in his achaat 
That he was ay biforn and in good staat. 
Now is nat that of God a ful fair grace, 
That swich a lewed mannes wit shal pace 
The wisdom of an heep of lerned men? 
Of maistres hadde he mo than thries ten, 
That weren of lawe expert and curious, 
Of whiche ther weren a duszeyne in that hous 
Worthy to been stywardes of rente and lond 
Of any lord that is in Engelond, 
To maken hym lyve by his propre good, 
In honour dettelees, but if he were wood, 
Or lyve as scarsly as hym list desire; 
And able for to helpen al a shire 
In any caas that myghte falle or happe; 
And yet this Manciple sette hir aller cappe 


The Reve was a sclendre colerik man. 
His berd was shave as ny as ever he kan; 
His heer was by his erys round y-shorn; 
His top was dokked lyk a preest biforn. 
Ful longe were his legges and ful lene, 
Y-lyk a staf, ther was no calf y-sene. 
Wel koude he kepe a gerner and a bynne; 
Ther was noon auditour koude on him wynne. 
Wel wiste he, by the droghte and by the reyn, 
The yeldynge of his seed and of his greyn. 
His lordes sheep, his neet, his dayerye, 
His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye, 
Was hoolly in this reves governyng; 
And by his covenant yaf the rekenyng 
Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of age; 
There koude no man brynge hym in arrerage. 
There nas baillif, ne hierde, nor oother hyne, 
That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne; 
They were adrad of hym as of the deeth. 
His wonyng was ful fair upon an heeth; 
With grene trees shadwed was his place. 
He koude bettre than his lord purchace; 
Ful riche he was a-stored pryvely. 
His lord wel koude he plesen subtilly, 
To yeve and lene hym of his owene good, 
And have a thank, and yet a cote and hood. 
In youthe he hadde lerned a good myster; 
He was a wel good wrighte, a carpenter. 
This Reve sat upon a ful good stot, 
That was al pomely grey, and highte Scot. 
A long surcote of pers upon he hade, 
And by his syde he baar a rusty blade. 
Of Northfolk was this Reve of which I telle, 
Biside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 
Tukked he was as is a frere, aboute. 
And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route. 


A Somonour was ther with us in that place, 
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynnes face, 
For sawcefleem he was, with eyen narwe. 
As hoot he was and lecherous as a sparwe, 
With scaled browes blake and piled berd,— 
Of his visage children were aferd. 
Ther nas quyk-silver, lytarge, ne brymstoon, 
Boras, ceruce, ne oille of tartre noon, 
Ne oynement that wolde clense and byte, 
That hym myghte helpen of his whelkes white, 
Nor of the knobbes sittynge on his chekes. 
Wel loved he garleek, oynons, and eek lekes, 
And for to drynken strong wyn, reed as blood. 
Thanne wolde he speke, and crie as he were wood. 
And whan that he wel dronken hadde the wyn, 
Than wolde he speke no word but Latyn. 
A fewe termes hadde he, two or thre, 
That he had lerned out of som decree,— 
No wonder is, he herde it al the day; 
And eek ye knowen wel how that a jay 
Kan clepen "Watte" as wel as kan the pope. 
But whoso koude in oother thyng hym grope, 
Thanne hadde he spent al his philosophie; 
Ay "Questio quid juris" wolde he crie. 
He was a gentil harlot and a kynde; 
A bettre felawe sholde men noght fynde. 
He wolde suffre for a quart of wyn 
A good felawe to have his concubyn 
A twelf month, and excuse hym atte fulle; 
And prively a fynch eek koude he pulle. 
And if he foond owher a good felawe, 
He wolde techen him to have noon awe, 
In swich caas, of the erchedekenes curs, 
But if a mannes soule were in his purs; 
For in his purs he sholde y-punysshed be: 
"Purs is the erchedekenes helle," seyde he. 
But wel I woot he lyed right in dede. 
Of cursyng oghte ech gilty man him drede, 
For curs wol slee, right as assoillyng savith; 
And also war him of a Significavit. 
In daunger hadde he at his owene gise 
The yonge girles of the diocise, 
And knew hir conseil, and was al hir reed. 
A gerland hadde he set upon his heed, 
As greet as it were for an ale-stake; 
A bokeleer hadde he maad him of a cake. 


With hym ther rood a gentil Pardoner 
Of Rouncivale, his freend and his compeer, 
That streight was comen fro the court of Rome. 
Ful loude he soong, "Com hider, love, to me!" 
This Somonour bar to hym a stif burdoun; 
Was nevere trompe of half so greet a soun. 
This Pardoner hadde heer as yelow as wex, 
But smothe it heeng as dooth a strike of flex; 
By ounces henge his lokkes that he hadde, 
And therwith he his shuldres overspradde. 
But thynne it lay, by colpons, oon and oon; 
But hood, for jolitee, wered he noon, 
For it was trussed up in his walét. 
Hym thoughte he rood al of the newe jet; 
Dischevelee, save his cappe, he rood al bare. 
Swiche glarynge eyen hadde he as an hare. 
A vernycle hadde he sowed upon his cappe. 
His walet lay biforn hym in his lappe, 
Bret-ful of pardoun, comen from Rome al hoot. 
A voys he hadde as smal as hath a goot. 
No berd hadde he, ne nevere sholde have, 
As smothe it was as it were late y-shave; 
I trowe he were a geldyng or a mare. 
But of his craft, fro Berwyk into Ware, 
Ne was ther swich another pardoner; 
For in his male he hadde a pilwe-beer, 
Which that, he seyde, was Oure Lady veyl; 
He seyde he hadde a gobet of the seyl 
That Seinte Peter hadde, whan that he wente 
Upon the see, til Jesu Crist hym hente. 
He hadde a croys of latoun, ful of stones, 
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones. 
But with thise relikes, whan that he fond 
A povre person dwellynge upon lond, 
Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye 
Than that the person gat in monthes tweye; 
And thus with feyned flaterye and japes 
He made the person and the peple his apes. 
But trewely to tellen atte laste, 
He was in chirche a noble ecclesiaste; 
Wel koude he rede a lessoun or a storie, 
But alderbest he song an offertorie; 
For wel he wiste, whan that song was songe, 
He moste preche, and wel affile his tonge 
To wynne silver, as he ful wel koude; 
Therefore he song the murierly and loude. 


Now have I toold you shortly, in a clause, 
Thestaat, tharray, the nombre, and eek the cause 
Why that assembled was this compaignye 
In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye 
That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
But now is tyme to yow for to telle 
How that we baren us that ilke nyght, 
Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght; 
And after wol I telle of our viage 
And al the remenaunt of oure pilgrimage. 


But first, I pray yow, of youre curteisye, 
That ye narette it nat my vileynye, 
Thogh that I pleynly speke in this mateere, 
To telle yow hir wordes and hir cheere, 
Ne thogh I speke hir wordes proprely. 
For this ye knowen al-so wel as I, 
Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, 
He moot reherce, as ny as evere he kan, 
Everich a word, if it be in his charge, 
Al speke he never so rudeliche and large; 
Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, 
Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes newe. 
He may nat spare, althogh he were his brother; 
He moot as wel seye o word as another. 
Crist spak hymself ful brode in hooly writ, 
And wel ye woot no vileynye is it. 
Eek Plato seith, whoso kan hym rede, 
"The wordes moote be cosyn to the dede." 


Also I prey yow to foryeve it me, 
Al have I nat set folk in hir degree 
Heere in this tale, as that they sholde stonde; 
My wit is short, ye may wel understonde. 


Greet chiere made oure Hoost us everichon, 
And to the soper sette he us anon, 
And served us with vitaille at the beste: 
Strong was the wyn and wel to drynke us leste. 


A semely man Oure Hooste was with-alle 
For to been a marchal in an halle. 
A large man he was with eyen stepe, 
A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe; 
Boold of his speche, and wys, and well y-taught, 
And of manhod hym lakkede right naught. 
Eek thereto he was right a myrie man, 
And after soper pleyen he bigan, 
And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges, 
Whan that we hadde maad our rekenynges; 
And seyde thus: "Now, lordynges, trewely, 
Ye been to me right welcome, hertely; 
For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye, 
I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye 
At ones in this herberwe as is now. 
Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how; 
And of a myrthe I am right now bythoght, 
To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght. 


"Ye goon to Canterbury—God yow speede, 
The blisful martir quite yow youre meede! 
And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye, 
Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye; 
For trewely confort ne myrthe is noon 
To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon; 
And therfore wol I maken yow disport, 
As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort. 
And if you liketh alle, by oon assent, 
For to stonden at my juggement, 
And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
To-morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 
Now, by my fader soule, that is deed, 
But ye be myrie, I wol yeve yow myn heed! 
Hoold up youre hond, withouten moore speche." 


Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche; 
Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys, 
And graunted hym withouten moore avys, 
And bad him seye his verdit, as hym leste. 


"Lordynges," quod he, "now herkneth for the beste; 
But taak it nought, I prey yow, in desdeyn; 
This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 
That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye 
In this viage, shal telle tales tweye, 
To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so, 
And homward he shal tellen othere two, 
Of aventúres that whilom han bifalle. 
And which of yow that bereth hym beste of alle, 
That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 
Tales of best sentence and moost solaas, 
Shal have a soper at oure aller cost, 
Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, 
Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbury. 
And, for to make yow the moore mury, 
I wol myselven gladly with yow ryde, 
Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde; 
And whoso wole my juggement withseye 
Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 
And if ye vouche-sauf that it be so, 
Tel me anon, withouten wordes mo, 
And I wol erly shape me therfore." 


This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore 
With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also 
That he wolde vouche-sauf for to do so, 
And that he wolde been oure governour, 
And of our tales juge and réportour, 
And sette a soper at a certeyn pris; 
And we wol reuled been at his devys 
In heigh and lough; and thus, by oon assent, 
We been acorded to his juggement. 
And therupon the wyn was fet anon; 
We dronken, and to reste wente echon, 
Withouten any lenger taryynge. 


Amorwe, whan that day gan for to sprynge, 
Up roos oure Hoost and was oure aller cok, 
And gadrede us togidre alle in a flok; 
And forth we riden, a litel moore than paas, 
Unto the wateryng of Seint Thomas; 
And there oure Hoost bigan his hors areste, 
And seyde, "Lordynges, herkneth, if yow leste: 
Ye woot youre foreward and I it yow recorde. 
If even-song and morwe-song accorde, 
Lat se now who shal telle the firste tale. 
As ever mote I drynke wyn or ale, 
Whoso be rebel to my juggement 
Shal paye for all that by the wey is spent. 
Now draweth cut, er that we ferrer twynne; 
He which that hath the shorteste shal bigynne. 
Sire Knyght," quod he, "my mayster and my lord 
Now draweth cut, for that is myn accord. 
Cometh neer," quod he, "my lady Prioresse. 
And ye, sire Clerk, lat be your shamefastnesse, 
Ne studieth noght. Ley hond to, every man." 


Anon to drawen every wight bigan, 
And, shortly for to tellen as it was, 
Were it by áventúre, or sort, or cas, 
The sothe is this, the cut fil to the Knyght, 
Of which ful blithe and glad was every wyght; 
And telle he moste his tale, as was resoun, 
By foreward and by composicioun, 
As ye han herd; what nedeth wordes mo? 
And whan this goode man saugh that it was so, 
As he that wys was and obedient 
To kepe his foreward by his free assent, 
He seyde, "Syn I shal bigynne the game, 
What, welcome be the cut, a Goddes name! 
Now lat us ryde, and herkneth what I seye." 
And with that word we ryden forth oure weye; 
And he bigan with right a myrie cheere 
His tale anon, and seyde in this manére.

I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.
I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell
with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.
I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon,
a bird’s sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.
I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.
I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to her mother.
And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.
To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.
I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a
single word: Home.

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 cool 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 toward 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 battalion 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 railroad 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 cosmos 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 behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava 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 with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle 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 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 hung-over 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 to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment 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 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 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 or 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 lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with 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 in 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 ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 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 reincarnate 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 of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum 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 judgment! 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 Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks 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! invisible 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! ecstasies! 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!

I

Living is no laughing matter:
	you must live with great seriousness
		like a squirrel, for example—
   I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
		I mean living must be your whole occupation.
Living is no laughing matter:
	you must take it seriously,
	so much so and to such a degree
   that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
                                            your back to the wall,
   or else in a laboratory
	in your white coat and safety glasses,
	you can die for people—
   even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,
   even though you know living
	is the most real, the most beautiful thing.
I mean, you must take living so seriously
   that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—
   and not for your children, either,
   but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,
   because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery—
which is to say we might not get up
			from the white table.
Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad
			about going a little too soon,
we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,
or still wait anxiously
		for the latest newscast. . . 
Let’s say we’re at the front—
	for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
	we might fall on our face, dead.
We’ll know this with a curious anger,
        but we’ll still worry ourselves to death
        about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let’s say we’re in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
                        before the iron doors will open.
We’ll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind—
                                I  mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
        we must live as if we will never die.

III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
               and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet—
	  I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even 
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
	  in pitch-black space . . . 
You must grieve for this right now
—you have to feel this sorrow now—
for the world must be loved this much
                               if you’re going to say “I lived”. . .

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the street corner
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the stars.

Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.

Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead dahlias.
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

One day
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the eyes of cows.

Another day
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes are waiting,
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.

Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.

No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the night,
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters.