The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan Read online

  Head of lettuce, glass of chocolate milk

  “I wonder if people talk about me, secretly?”

  Guess I’ll call up Bernadette today, & Dick

  The Swedish Policeman in the next room, the Knife

  Fighter. Why are my hands shaking? I usually think

  Something like The Williamsburg Bridge watching the sun come

  Up, wetly round my ears,

  Hatless in the white & shining air. Throbbing

  Aeroplanes zoom in at us from out there; redder

  For what happens there. Yes

  It’s a big world,

  It has a band-aid on it, & under it

  TRUE LOVE,

  in a manner of speaking.

  Poem

  of morning, Iowa City, blue

  gray & green out the window . . .

  A mountain, blotchy pink & white

  is rising, breathing, smoke

  Now, lumbering, an Elephant, on

  crutches, is sailing; down

  Capitol, down Court, across

  Madison & down College, cold

  clear air

  pouring in

  Now those crutches

  are being tossed aside; the

  Elephant is beginning to rise

  into the warm regulated air

  of another altitude

  That air is you, your breathing

  Thanks for it, & thanks a lot

  for Pasternak: The Poems of Yurii Zhivago

  & Mayakovsky: Poems.

  They were great.

  Now it’s me.

  Train Ride

  FEBRUARY 18TH, 1971

  FOR JOE

  Here comes the Man!

  He’s talking a lot.

  New York to Providence

  &

  I’ve got a ticket to ride!

  SMOKING PERMITTED

  The seats are blue

  I’m sitting with MYSELF

  A long naked pair of legs,

  about 17 yrs old

  stare at me

  across the linoleum

  aisle

  I’m a mild Sex Fiend!

  But you can’t fuck

  here

  & what could you say

  to smooth 17 year old

  faces?

  NOTHING!!

  So, they lose out.

  What can you say

  at all?

  NOTHING

  However, it’s easy to keep

  talking

  if

  it’s what you do. . . .

  MEN WOMEN

  SPEED

  What I like is

  ASTERISKS

  They’re so

  Bold, confident, like you

  have a plan, you’re in

  control, you’ll be back

  in a minute.

  “Man, you’ve got to do

  something about that handwriting!

  It’s Terrible!”

  Lorenzo Thomas

  Said That

  to me

  in 1962.

  I didn’t.

  It’s ME.

  Now I read a sex book

  from the Library of

  JIMMY SCHUYLER.

  “He loves ’em.”

  (JOE BRAINARD)

  Out the Window

  is

  Out to Lunch!!

  Some people one should only

  fuck once.

  Others one should not fuck

  at all unless there is an

  affair.

  Then there are those one should

  not fuck, under almost any

  circumstances (tho lapses are

  forgiveable)

  Let me see: I’ve fucked in

  Rhode Island

  Maine

  Vermont

  New York

  Florida

  Texas

  Oklahoma

  New Mexico

  Colorado

  California

  Michigan

  Iowa

  Pennsylvania

  Kansas

  Connecticut

  Japan

  &

  Korea

  And

  In beds

  On floors

  In Bathrooms at Parties

  In Hallways

  In Cars

  On Rooftops

  Window-Sills

  &

  At a bus Stop

  Never did fuck any boys

  (I think)

  or

  get fucked by any

  Tho a few blow-jobs

  for curiosity

  or

  because someone really

  wanted to.

  Oops! Add

  “In Life-raft

  on Lake”

  Always wanted to fuck in Air-Planes

  & On Trains

  Maybe later

  I sort of hate to be on the

  Make

  Like to have some-one

  on the Make

  for me

  &

  then

  Take Over

  Last time I counted I think

  It was about

  50

  The number of people,

  I mean

  Only about 10 were once.

  No, maybe 15.

  & that’s counting

  Japan

  &

  Korea

  Many of them, those girls,

  & me,

  we still do it when we

  get a chance.

  One, at least, is dead.

  I wish one that’s alive

  were here.

  Or Anne,

  who is

  dead.

  I’m sure she’d love to fuck

  on a train

  Remember the night we did

  it in your house,

  Joe?

  (Me and Anne, that is)

  It was Nice

  I guess I’d fuck anyone

  who thinks I’m

  terrific!

  Tho you never can

  tell.

  “All I really want to do is

  have my back

  rubbed.”

  —Anne Waldman

  I just remembered:

  Add: ENGLAND

  Now we’re passing thru

  NEW LONDON

  Sailors are probably

  fucking each other

  here

  right now.

  “I’m laying there, & some

  guy comes up &

  hits me with

  a Billy Club!”

  —The fat guy across the aisle

  just said

  that.

  Once, while a girl was giving me

  a glorious blow-job behind a curtain,

  my room-mate, across the room, was studying

  CALCULUS!

  (Tony Powers was

  the room-mate)

  Once a girl & I got into an automobile

  accident

  in her car, so

  we decided to fuck

  (later)

  Once I tried to fuck a little girl

  8 years old, when I was also 8 years old,

  but I don’t think I knew how.

  I can’t quite

  remember.

  The long legs just got up

  & got off

  (New London)

  Now I’ll read this queer sex book

  some more.

  It says,

  “Jean Cocteau had no heart.”

  That’s strange.

  I think he probably did.

  I probably have one, so

  Cocteau probably had one.

  Right?

  Right.

  This book seems to have 1,000,000 pages.

  No one can think about Fucking

  for that long.

  I may have to turn back

  into

  my “well-rounded self”

 
in order to finish.

  My “well-rounded self”

  is not always

  interesting,

  but does manage

  to get through.

  Now, we ride across the river,

  and past auto-parts

  made of NEON.

  I just saw a blue

  electric

  A

  which I thought

  at first

  was a beautiful evening slipper.

  This is a blue train-ride.

  I don’t feel blue, but

  I can see it.

  A man name of

  Lloyd Calvin Shippey

  is sitting

  next to me.

  He says, “Who are you

  supposed to be

  in that hair?”

  I say, “Uh, Ted Berrigan.”

  He says, “I thought,

  Ben Franklin!”

  I forget about him, so

  he is no longer there.

  Nor here.

  This queer sex book is not

  very dirty.

  Not even very queer.

  Not even here,

  Now.

  I am dead; and I am now in

  The After-life. Here you do

  just what you do in Life, but

  it’s never quite real, nor fun.

  It isn’t boring tho, but it is

  sort of pointless.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been

  dead, but I’d say it is since about

  1962.

  Once in a while I’m alive for a few minutes

  . . . . . . probably just dreams

  or very real deja-vus.

  Maybe it’s age, & you come alive

  in a different way maybe next

  year, or some time.

  It isn’t any big thing,

  anyway.

  I mean, you can’t go around

  worrying about it.

  I do nothing for a while,

  &

  I don’t remember

  what nothing.

  Maybe I will fuck

  this trip.

  She’s in Boston.

  I would like to be elected a SENATOR.

  I don’t think I’m suited

  for any other job, &

  I think my poetry

  would be exciting to write

  if I were a

  Senator.

  I’d be a terrific Senator

  because I’d love it.

  I really like to be alone, if

  I don’t have to be.

  I like to come & go.

  What I don’t like is how money is involved

  in everything.

  I like to give people

  money.

  I hate to be given money. It’s embarrassing!

  I do like

  to get money in the mail.

  & I like to get paid lots of money

  for doing something like reading, talking, or

  publishing.

  How come I can’t get paid

  just for writing?

  I do like to get presents

  spontaneously given,

  or just for me.

  But it’s socially awkward that

  some people for almost no reason

  have money, & some don’t.

  Anyway, money is

  very perplexing,

  & I don’t understand it.

  I like Credit Cards.

  Alas, I can’t pay the bills,

  but I always spend with the Credit Card

  in a terrific way!!

  I take people to terrific

  Restaurants!

  I go to England!

  I buy somebody their

  return ticket, because they’re

  broke.

  I buy a couple of terrific

  shirts.

  & a pair of pants.

  I rent a car & drive it to Wales, & Liverpool,

  with

  Lewis Warsh,

  on Acid!

  I bump into other

  cars!!

  I buy a de Kooning!

  I buy the NY Times, &

  do the Crossword Puzzle

  I buy some money & give it to

  my Mother

  so she won’t worry!

  She only needs $300 to make

  her Summer Worry-free.

  I buy lots of pills

  &

  I give you

  lots of pills.

  I even get to shop, on Carnaby Street,

  in a Children’s Boutique

  for terrific boots & cowboy jackets

  for David!

  & sharp clothes for

  Kate!

  I buy a train ticket

  to SING-SING

  I rent a cell for 20

  Years,

  because

  I don’t pay my bills!

  Then I write terrific Prison Poems,

  & get lots of mail!

  Then I don’t know what I

  do then.

  You don’t get to fuck much, in

  SING-SING,

  if you’re straight.

  I don’t know how I got

  to be straight,

  since I didn’t try

  for it.

  I’m sure it’s just like being queer,

  only different.

  For example, Edwin is

  the straightest person I

  know,

  & he’s been queer forever.

  while Rudy is just like

  Edwin,

  & he’s straight.

  Queer is a pretty queer

  word.

  “I’m a queer.”

  Ha-ha!

  How about

  “I’m a straight.”

  Unbelievable!

  “I’m an American.”

  O.K.

  “I’m a Christian.”

  Yes, I suppose

  you must be.

  “I’m a Poet.”

  That must be an

  interesting job.

  “I’m a pill-addict.”

  You are?

  “I’m a grown-up, now.”

  Ha-ha.

  “I’m a father.”

  That’s good.

  “I’m a long-haired Weirdo.”

  You seem perfectly normal

  to me.

  “I’m a great guy.”

  Well, you are in a manner

  of speaking.

  “I’m a fucking monster!”

  “I’m part elephant, Part Tiger, part

  Nag, Part bore.”

  You might say that.

  “I’m an ordinary person.”

  Yes you are.

  “I’m a passenger.”

  That’s absolutely true.

  Now, tell me about You?

  (this space for you

  to do so)

  & this

  & this

  That’s enough.

  Now what shall we talk

  about?

  We could

  bitch all our mutual

  friends!!

  Good Idea,

  as we pull into

  Providence,

  R. I.

  OUR FRIENDS

  Ron: the tight-ass

  Dick: the insignificant

  Pat: the dowdy old lady

  Anne: the superficial

  sentimentalist

  Bill: the spoiled snoot

  Kenward: the Elephant with

  the soul of a Butterfly &

  the temper of a Scorpion.

  George: the bad painter

  Michael: the Self Important

  Fuss-budget

  The grotesque John Ashbery of

  the bad character

  The silly boring Kenneth Koch

  The frumpy Jane Freilicher

  The Pain-in-the-Ass Larry

  Fagin

  The whining Jim Carroll

&
nbsp; The Snake in the grass Lewis Warsh

  The slick easy poet,

  Tom Clark

  Jimmy Schuyler who has no stamina

  The Asinine baby Tom Veitch

  etc.

  etc.

  (Now You do some)

  Yes, but what about us?

  The Insufferable

  Ted Berrigan:

  He’s so fucking

  Heavy!

  What a tiresome

  person!

  So Presumptuous!

  Self-Important!

  Repetitious!

  Never Shuts Up!

  Too fucking Bossy!

  Who does he think he is???

  Fat-Ass!

  Those Teeth!

  Mean to his wife!!

  Boring Poet!!

  Who Cares!!

  Why doesn’t he run for Pope

  & get it over with!!

  He thinks he knows

  it All!!

  etc.

  etc.

  & That Joe Brainard!!

  He likes the boring Supremes!

  Why doesn’t he be great,

  like de Kooning?

  Why doesn’t he button

  that shirt?

  Cook?

  Be poor again & do great

  Masterpieces?

  Stop Tom-catting

  around?

  He makes everyone Nervous!!

  He dresses funny!!

  His apartment is weird!!

  He’s compulsive!