Richard Brautigan
The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster
ALL WATCHED OVER BY MACHINES OF LOVING GRACE
I like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
programming harmony
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers
as if they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace.
HORSE CHILD BREAKFAST
Horse child breakfast
what are you doing to me?
with your long blonde legs?
with your long blonde face?
with your long blonde hair?
with your perfect blonde ass?
I swear I’ll never be the
same again!
Horse child breakfast,
what you’re doing to me,
I want done forever.
THE BEAUTIFUL POEM
I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
about you.
Pissing a few moments ago
I looked down at my penis
affectionately.
Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
feel beautiful.
3 A.M.
January 15, 1967
THE SHENEVERTAKESHERWATCHOFF POEM
For Marcia
Because you always have a clock
strapped to your body, it’s natural
that I should think of you as the
correct time:
with your long blonde hair at 8:03,
and your pulse-lightning breasts at
11:17, and your rose-meow smile at 5:30,
I know I’m right.
KARMA REPAIR KIT: ITEMS 1-4
1. Get enough food to eat,
And eat it.
2. Find a place to sleep where it is quiet,
and sleep there.
3. Reduce intellectual and emotional noise
until you arrive at the silence of yourself,
and listen to it.
4.
SAN FRANCISCO
This poem was found written on a paper bag
by Richard Brautigan in a laundromat in San
Francisco. The author is unknown.
By accident, you put
Your money in my
Machine (#4)
By accident, I put
My money in another
Machine (#6)
On purpose, I put
Your clothes in the
Empty machine full
Of water and no
Clothes
It was lonely.
XEROX CANDY BAR
Ah,
you’re just a copy
of all the candy bars
I’ve ever eaten.
DISCOVERY
The petals of the vagina unfold
like Christopher Columbus
taking off his shoes.
Is there anything more beautiful
than the bow of a ship
touching a new world?
WIDOW’S LAMENT
It’s not quite cold enough
to go borrow some firewood
from the neighbors.
DEATH IS A BEAUTIFUL CAR PARKED ONLY
For Emmett
Death is a beautiful car parked only
to be stolen on a street lined with trees
whose branches are like the intestines
of an emerald.
You hotwire death, get in, and drive away
like a flag made from a thousand burning
funeral parlors.
You have stolen death because you’re bored.
There’s nothing good playing at the movies
in San Francisco.
You joyride around for a while listening
to the radio, and then abandon death, walk
away, and leave death for the police
to find.
THE FEVER MONUMENT
I walked across the park to the fever monument.
It was in the center of a glass square surrounded
by red flowers and fountains. The monument
was in the shape of a sea horse and the plaque read
We got hot and died.
AT THE CALIFORNIA INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY
I don’t care how God-damn smart
these guys are: I’m bored.
It’s been raining like hell all day long
and there’s nothing to do.
Written January 24, 1967
while poet-in-residence at
the California Institute of
Technology.
“STAR-SPANGLED” NAILS
You’ve got
Some “Star-Spangled”
Nails
In your coffin, kid.
That’s what
They’ve done for you,
Son.
ADRENALIN MOTHER
Adrenalin Mother,
with your dress of comets
and shoes of swift bird wings
and shadow of jumping fish,
thank you for touching,
understanding and loving my life.
Without you, I am dead.
MAP SHOWER
For Marcia
I want your hair
to cover me with maps
of new places,
so everywhere I go
will be as beautiful
as your hair.
A POSTCARD FROM CHINATOWN
The Chinese smoke opium
in their bathrooms.
They all get in the bathroom
and lock the door.
The old people sit in the tub
and the children sit
on the floor.
DECEMBER 30
At 1:03 in the morning a fart
smells like a marriage between
an avocado and a fish head.
I have to get out of bed
to write this down without
My glasses on.
I’VE NEVER HAD IT DONE SO GENTLY BEFORE
For M
The sweet juices of your mouth
are like castles bathed in honey.
I’ve never had it done so gently before.
You have put a circle of castles
around my penis and you swirl them
like sunlight on the wings of birds.
YOUR NECKLACE IS LEAKING
For Marcia
Your necklace is leaking
and blue light drips
from your beads to cover
your beautiful breasts
with a clear African dawn.
THE RAPE OF OPHELIA
Her clothes spread wide and mermaid-like while
they bore her up: which time she chanted snatches
of old tunes, and sweet Ophelia floated down the river
past black stones until she came to an evil fisherman
who was dressed in clothes that had no childhood,
and beautiful Ophelia floated like an April church
into his shadow, and he, the evil fisherman of our dreams,
waded out into the river and captured the poor mad girl,
and taking her into the deep grass, he killed her
with the shock of his body, and he placed her back
into the river, and Laertes said, Alas, then she is drown’d!
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia.
I FEEL HORRIBLE. SHE DOESN’T
I feel horrible. She doesn’t
Love me and I wander around
The house like a sewing machine
That’s just finished sewing
A turd to a garbage can lid.
THE GALILEE HITCH-HIKER
Part 1
Baudelaire was
driving a Model A
across Galilee.
He picked up a
hitch-hiker named
Jesus who had
been standing among
a school of fish,
feeding them
pieces of bread.
“Where are you
going?” asked
Jesus, getting
into the front
seat.
“Anywhere, anywhere
out of this world!”
shouted
Baudelaire.
“I’ll go with you
as far as
Golgotha,”
said Jesus.
“I have a
concession
at the carnival
there, and I must not be
late.”
THE AMERICAN HOTEL, PART 2
Baudelaire was sitting
in a doorway with a wino
on San Francisco’s skidrow.
the wino was a million
years old and could remember
dinosaurs.
Baudelaire and the wino
were drinking Petri Muscatel.
“One must always be drunk,”
said Baudelaire.
“I live in the American Hotel,”
said the wino. “And I can
remember dinosaurs.”
“Be you drunken ceaselessly,”
said Baudelaire.
1939, Part 3
Baudilaire used to come
to our house and watch
me grind coffee.
That was in 1939
and we lived in the slums
of Tacoma.
My mother would put
the coffee beans in the grinder.
I was a child
and would turn the handle,
pretending that it was
a hurdy-gurdy,
and Baudelaire would pretend
that he was a monkey,
hopping up and down
and holding out
a tin cup.
THE FLOWER BURGERS, PART 4
Baudelaire opened
up a hamburger stand
in San Francisco,
but he put flowers
between the buns.
People would come in
and say, “Give me a
hamburger with plenty
of onions on it.”
Baudelaire would give
them a flowerburger
instead and the people
would say, “What kind
of a hamburger stand
is this?”
THE HOUR OF ETERNITY, PART 5
“The Chinese
read the time
in the eyes
of cats,”
said Baudelaire
and went into
a jewelry store
on Market Street.
He came out
a few moments
later carrying
a twenty-one
jewel Siamese
cat that he
wore on the
end of a
golden chain.
SALVADOR DALI, PART 6
“Are you
or aren’t you
going to eat
your soup,
you bloody old
cloud merchant?”
Jeanne Duval
shouted,
hitting Baudelaire
on the back
as he sat
daydreaming
out the window.
Baudelaire was
startled.
Then he laughed
like hell,
waving his spoon
in the air
like a wand
changing the room
into a painting
by Salvador
Dali, changing
the room
into a painting
by Van Gogh.
A BASEBALL GAME, PART 7
Baudelare went
to a baseball game
and bought a hot dog
and lit up a pipe
of opium.
the New York Yankees
were playing
the Detroit Tigers.
In the fourth inning
an angel committed
suicide by jumping
off a low cloud.
The angel landed
on second base,
causing the
whole infield
to crack like
a huge mirror.
The game was
called on
account of
fear.
INSANE ASYLUM, PART 8
Baudelaire went
to the insane asylum
disguised as a
psychiatrist.
He stayed there
for two months
and when he left,
the insane asylum
loved him so much
that it followed
him all over
California,
and Baudelaire
laughed when the
insane asylum
rubbed itself
up against
his
leg like a
strange cat.
MY INSECT FUNERAL, PART 9
When I was a child
I had a graveyard
where I buried insects
and dead birds under
a rose tree.
I would bury the insects
in tin foil and match boxes.
I would bury the birds
in pieces of red cloth.
It was all very sad
and I would cry
as I scooped dirt
into their small graves
with a spoon.
Baudelaire would come
and join in
my insect funerals,
saying little prayers
the size of
dead birds.
San Fancisco
February 1958
IT’S RAINING IN LOVE
I don’t know what it is,
But I distrust myself
When I start to like a girl
A lot.
It makes me nervous.
I don’t say the right things
Or perhaps I start
To examine,
Evaluate,
Compute
What I am saying.
If I say, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and she says, “I don’t know,”
I start thinking: Does she really like me?
In other words
I get a little creepy.
A friend of mine once said,
“It’s twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them.”
I think he’s right and besides,
its raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That’s all taken care of.
BUT
if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
“Do you think it’s going to rain?”
and I say, “It beats me,”
and she says, “Oh,”
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think: Thank God, it’s you, baby, this time
Instead of me.
HEY! THIS IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT
For Jeff Sheppard
No publication
No money
No star
No fuck
A friend came over to the house
a few days ago and read one of my poems.
He came back today and asked to read the
same poem over again. After he finished
reading it, he said, “It makes me want
to write poetry.”
MY NOSE IS GROWING OLD
Yup.
A long lazy September look
in the mirror
say it’s true:
I’m 31
and my nose is growing
old.
It starts about 1/2
and inch
below the bridge
and strolls geriatrically
down
for another inch or so:
stopping
Fortunately, the rest
of the nose is comparatively
young.
I wonder if girls
will want me with an
old nose.
I can hear them now
the heartless bitches!
“He’s cute
but his nose
is old.”
THE CASTLE OF THE CORMORANTS
Hamlet with
a cormorant
under his arm
married Ophelia.
She was still
wet from drowning.
She looked like
a white flower
that had been
left in the
rain too long
I love you,
said Ophelia,
and I love
that dark
bird you
hold in
your arms.
Big Sur
February 1958
MILK FOR THE DUCK
ZAP!
Unlaid / 20 days
My sexual image
Isn’t worth a shit.
If I were dead
I couldn’t attract
A female fly.
THE HORSE THAT HAD A FLAT TIRE
Once upon a valley
there came down
from some goldenblue mountains
a handsome young prince
who was riding
a dawncolored horse
named Lordsburg.
I love you
You’re my breathing castle
Gentle so gentle
We’ll live forever
In the valley
there was a beautiful maiden
whom the prince
drifted into love with
like a New Mexico made from
apple thunder and long
glass beds.
I love you
You’re my breathing castle
Gentle so gentle
We’ll live forever
The prince enchanted
the maiden
and they rode off
on the dawncolored horse
named Lordsburg
toward the goldenblue mountains.
I love you
You’re my breathing castle
Gentle so gentle
We’ll live forever
They would have lived
happily ever after
if the horse hadn’t had
a flat tire
in front of a dragon’s
house.
THE SYMBOL
When I was hitch-hiking down to Big Sur,
Moby Dick stopped and picked me up. He was driving
a truckload of sea gulls to San Luis Obispo.
“Do you like being a truckdriver better than you
do a whale?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Moby Dick said. “Hoffa is a lot better
to us whales than Captain Ahab ever was.
The old fart.”
I CANNOT ANSWER YOU TONIGHT IN SMALL PORTIONS
I cannot answer you tonight in small portions.
Torn apart by stormy love’s gate, I float
like a phantom facedown in a well where
the cold dark water reflects vague half-built
stars
and trades all our affection, touching, sleeping
together for tribunal distance standing like
a drowning train just beyond a pile of Eskimo
skeletons.
THE GARLIC MEAT LADY FROM
We’re cooking dinner tonight.
I’m making a kind of Stonehenge
stroganoff.
Marcia is helping me. You
already know the legend
of her beauty.
I’ve asked her to rub garlic
on the meat. She takes
each piece of meat like a lover
and rubs it gently with garlic.
I’ve never seen anything like this
before. Every orifice
of the meat is explored, caressed
relentlessly with garlic.
There is a passion here that would
drive a deaf saint to learn
the violin and play Beethoven at
Stonehenge.
BOO, FOREVER
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.