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ABOMUNIST MANIFESTO - Bob Kaufman

ABOMUNISTS JOIN NOTHING BUT THEIR HANDS OR LEGS,
          OR OTHER SAME.

ABOMUNIST SPIT ANTI-POETRY FOR POETIC REASONS
           AND FRINK.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT LOOK AT PICUTRES PAINTED
          BY PRESIDENTS AND UNEMPLOYD PRIME MINISTERS.

IN TIMES OF NATIONAL PERIL, ABOMUNISTS, AS REALITY
          AMERICANS, STAND READY TO DRINK THEMSELVES
          TO DEATH FOR THEIR COUNTRY.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT FEEL PAIN, NO MATTER HOW MUCH
          IT HURTS.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT USE THE WORD SQUARE EXCEPT WHEN
          TALKING TO SQUARES.

ABOMUNISTS READ NEWSPAPERS ONLY TO ASCERTAIN THEIR
          ABOMINUBILITY.

ABOMUNISTS NEVER CARRY MORE THAN FIFTY DOLLARS
          IN DEBTS ON THEM.

ABOMUNISTS BELIEVE THAT THE SOLUTION OF PROBLEMS
          OF RELIGIOUS BIGOTRY IS TO HAVE A CATHOLIC
          CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT AND PROTESTANT
          CANDIDATE FOR POPE.

ABOMUNISTS DO NOT WRITE FOR MONEY; THEY WRITE
          THE MONEY ITSELF.

ABOMUNISTS BELIEVE ONLY WHAT THEY DREAM ONLY
          AFTER IT COMES TRUE.

ABOMUNISTS CHILDREN MUST BE REARED ABOMUNIBLY.

ABOMUNIST POETS, CONFIDENT THAT THE NEW LITERARY
          FORM “FOOT-PRINTISM’ HAS FREED THE ARTIST
          OF OUTMODED RESTRICTIONS, SUCH AS: THE ABILITY TO
          READ AND WRITE, OR THE DESIRE TO COMMUNICATE,
          MUST BE PREPARED TO READ THEIR WORK AT DENTAL
          COLLEGES, EMBALMING SCHOOLS, HOMES FOR UNWED
          MOTHERS, HOMES FOR WED MOTHERS, INSANE ASYLUMS,
          USO CANTEENS, KINDERGARTENS, AND COUNTY JAILS.
          ABOMUNISTS NEVER COMPROMISE THEIR REJECTIONARY
          PHILOSOPHY.

ABOMUNISTS REJECT EVERYTHING EXCEPT SNOWMEN.

“Mulberry-eyed girls in block stockings, Smelling vaguely of mint jelly and last night's bongo drummer, Making profound remarks on the shakes of navels, Wondering how the short Sunset week Became the long Grant Avenue night, Love tinted, beat angels, Doomed to see their coffee dreams Crushed on the floors of time, As they fling their arrow legs To the heavens, Losing their doubles in the beat. ”

—Bob Kaufman, Bagel Shop Jazz

“All those flowers that you never grew- that you wanted to growThe ones that were plowed under ground in the mud-Today I bring them backAnd let you grow themForever." -Bob Kaufman, from "(ALL THOSE SHIPS THAT NEVER SAILED)”

—

“At confident moments, thinking on Death I tell my soul I am ready and wait While my mind knows I quake and tremble At the beautiful Mystery of it.”

—bob kaufman, awe.

“Remember, poet, while gallivanting across the sky, Skylarking, shouting, calling names … Walk softly. Your footprint on rain clouds is visible to naked eyes Lamps barnacled to your feet refract the mirrored air. Exotic scents of your hidden vision fly in the face of time. Remember not to forget the dying colors of yesterday As you inhale tomorrow's hot dream, blown from frozen lips. Remember, you naked agent of every nothing”

—Bob Kaufman

“Cool shadows blanked dead cities, falling, Electric anthills, where love was murdered. Daily crucifixions, on stainless steal crosses, In the garden of pillbox subdivisions, falling. Poets, like free reeds, drift over fetid landscapes. Death patterns capture the eyes. falling. A saving madness. cast by leafless trees, falling, Cushions the songs, filtered through smoking ruins, From the nostrils of unburied dead gods. Cool shadows, fall over drawn eyelids, falling, Cutting off the edge of time, falling, endlessly.”

—bob kaufman, falling.

“In black core of night, it explodes Silver thunder, rolling back my brain, Bursting copper screens, memory worlds Deep in star-fed beds of time, Seducing my soul to diamond fires of night. Faint outline, a ship—momentary fright Lifted on waves of color, Sunk in pits of light, Drummed back through time, Hummed back through mind, Drumming, cracking the night. Strange forest songs, skin sounds Crashing through—no longer strange. Incestuous yellow flowers tearing Magic from the earth. Moon-dipped rituals, led By a scarlet god, Caressed by ebony maidens With daylight eyes, Purple garments, Noses that twitch, Singing young girl songs Of an ancient love In dark, sunless places Where memories are sealed, Burned in eyes of tigers. Suddenly wise, I fight the dream: Green screams enfold my night.”

—bob kauffman, african dream.

“The poet nailed on The hard bone of this world, His soul dedicated to silence Is a fish with frog's eyes, The blood of a poet flows Out with his poems, back To the pyramid of bones From which he is thrust His death is a saving grace Creation is perfect”

—I Am a Camera by Bob Kaufman
From the collection “The Ancient Rain: Poems 1956-1978”

Round About Midnight, by Bob Kaufman

Jazz radio on a midnight kick,
Round about Midnight.

Sitting on the bed,
With a jazz type chick
Round about Midnight,

Piano laughter, in my ears,
Round about Midnight.

Stirring up laughter, dying tears,
Round about Midnight.

Soft blue voices, muted grins,
Excited voices, Father’s sins,
Round about Midnight.

Come on baby, take off your clothes,
Round about Midnight.

“On yardbird corners of embryonic hopes, drowned in a heroin tear. On yardbird corners of parkerflights to sound filled pockets in space. On neuro-corners of striped brains & desperate electro-surgeons. On alcohol corners of pointless discussion & historical hangovers. On television corners of cornflakes & rockwells impotent America. On university corners of tailored intellect & greek letter openers. On military corners of megathon deaths & universal anesthesia. On religious corners of theological limericks and On radio corners of century-long records & static events. On advertising corners of filter-tipped ice-cream & instant instants On teen-age corners of comic book seduction and corrupted guitars, On political corners of wamted candidates & ritual lies. On motion picture corners of lassie & other symbols. On intellectual corners of conversational therapy & analyzed fear. On newspaper corners of sexy headlines & scholarly comics. On love divided corners of die now pay later mortuaries. On philosophical corners of semantic desperadoes & idea-mongers. On middle class corners of private school puberty & anatomical revolts On ultra-real corners of love on abandoned roller-coasters On lonely poet corners of low lying leaves & moist prophet eyes.”

—On by Bob Kaufman

“I AM NOT A FORM, I AM ME, SACRED & HOLY, I AM UNIMPALABLE, THE FORM THAT MEMORY TAKES HAS BLED ON ME, AND BURNED RIMBAUD TO ASHES, NO ONE ELSE CAN EVEN THINK OF THAT FORM BLEEDING THEMSELVES OR OTHERS. ”

—Bob Kaufman, “Blue Slanted into Blueness”
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