Chapter One
The Ghost in BirminghamThe only Holy Ghost in Birmingham is Denmark Vesey'sHoly Ghost, brooding, moving in and out of things. No onenotices the figure in antique cloak of the last century,haunting the pool games, talking of the weather with apasserby, attending mass meetings, standing guard, comingup behind each wave of protest, reloading a pistol. No onenotices the antique figure in shabby clothing, moving inand out of things-rallies of moonshine gatherings-whousurps a pulpit and preaches a fire sermon, plucking theplumage of a furious hawk, a sparrow having passivelydied, moving in and out of chicken markets, watchingsparrow habits become hawk habits, through bar stoolsand greenless parks, beauty salons, floating games, goingsomewhere, haranguing the crowds, his sleeves rolled uplike a steelworker's, hurling epithets at the pharoah's club-wieldingbrigade, under orders to hunt down the firstbornof each low lit hearth.There are no bulls in America in the sense of great symbols,which preside over resuscitation of godheads, that shakethe dead land green. Only the "bull" of Birmingham, papiermache, ten dollars down monthly terms, carbon copymock heroic American variety of bullhood, who told acrowded room of flashbulbs that there was an outsidermoving in and out of things that night, a spectre whoflashed through the night like Pentecost. He's right, there was. Not the spook of the Judaic mystery, the universalimmersed in the particular. Not the outsider from unpopularmysteries, a monstrous dialectic waddling through thecorridors of his brain, but the nebulous presence hidden byflashbulbing events in Birmingham, Metempsychosisstroking the air.Pragma the bitch has a knight errant called Abbadon, in theold texts the advocate of dreadful policies. The whore, herabominations spilling over, her stinking afterbirths slimingtheir way towards a bay of pigs, has a bland and well-groomedknight errant who said that "if we hand down afew more decisions, pile up paper, snap a few more picturesby Bachrach of famous people before grand rhetoricalcolumns of the doric order, perhaps they will stop comingout into the streets in Raleigh, Greensboro, Jackson andAtlanta sometimes called the Athens of the south).Pragma's well-groomed and bland procurer is on long distance manufacturing heroes,Heroes who bray in sirens screaming in from Idlewild, winging in from points south,Their utterances cast into bronze by press-card-carrying harpies, those creatures of distorted reality.O ebony-limbed Osiris, what clown folk singer or acrobat shall I place the tin wreath upon?When will Osiris be scattered over 100 ghettos?Heroes are ferried in by motorcycle escorts, their faces cast into by Pointillism, by Artzybasheff,Sculptor of Henry Luce's America.Introducing the King of Birmingham, sometimes called the anointed one,Who receives the tin wreath across Americana banquet rooms,His hands dripping with blood like a fanatical monk as rebellion squirms on the stake.Introducing the Black Caligula, who performs a strip tease of the psyche,Between Tiffany ads and Vat 69, giving up a little pussy for a well-groomed and bland knight errant.O ebony-limbed Osiris, what knight club tap dancing charlatan shall I place the tin wreath upon?All things are flowing said the poet when gods ambushed gods: Khan follows Confucius Light follows darknessTin wreathed heroes are followed by the figure in antique clothes, obscured by the flashbulbing events in Birmingham.Metempsychosis in the air. The Jackal-Headed Cowboy We were-clinging to our arboreal-rustled by a poplin dude so fast that even now we mistake big mack trucks flying confederate crossbones for rampaging steer, leaping into their sandpaper hides and lassoing their stubble faced drivers as they roar into corn flaked greasy spoons. We span the spic and spanned cesspools nerves rankling like hot headed guerrillas bayoneting artery routes and crawling through our bowels with blades in their teeth. Our mohair suits, our watches, our horn rimmed glasses and several telephones petition us to slow down as we forget whose soupcan we swim. We stand at Brooklyn Bridge like mayakovsky before, deafened by the nuts and bolts and clogged in the comings and goings of goings of Usura We are homesick weary travelers in the Jungian sense and miss the brew of the long night's pipe. Our dreams point like bushy mavericks to hawking game and scattering ripple falls. We will swing from giant cables as if they were hemp, hacking away at sky scrapers till they tumble into christmas crowds. We will raid chock full O nuts untying apron strings crouching stealthily in the streets breaking up conference rooms sweeping away forms memo pads, ransoming bank presidents shoving dollar bills through their mahogany jaws. We will sit on Empire Sofas listening to Gabrieli's fortissimo trumpets blare for stewed and staggering Popes as Tom Tom mallets beat the base of our brains. We will leap tall couplets in a single bound and chant chant Chant until our pudgy swollen lips go on strike. Our daughters will shake rattle roll and slop snapping their fingers until grandfather clocks' knees buckle and Tudor mansions free their cobwebs. Our mothers will sing shout swing and foam making gothic spires get happy clapping the night like blown up Zeppelin. We will sizzle burn crackle and fry like combs snapping the naps of Henri Christophe's daughters. and We will scramble breasts bleating like some tribe run amuck up and down desecrating cosmotological graveyard factories. and We will mash stock exchange bugs till their sticky brown insides spill out like reams of ticker tape. and We will drag off yelling pinching bawling shouting pep pills, detergents, acne powders, clean rooms untampered maiden heads finger bowls napkins renaissance glassware time subscriptions reducing formulas -please call before visiting- -very happy to make your acquaintanceship i'm sure- and boil down one big vat of unanimal stew topped with kegs and kegs of whipped dynamite and cheery smithereens. and then We will rush like crazed antelopes with our bastard babies number books mojo goofer dusting razor blades chicken thighs spooky ha'nts daddygracing fatherdivining jack legged preaching bojangles sugar raying mamas into one scorching burning lake and have a jigging hoedown with the Quadrilling Sun. and the panting moneygrabbing landlord leeching redneck judges will scuffle the embankment and drag the lipstick sky outside. and their fuzzy patriarchs from Katzenjammer orphic will offer hogmaws and the thunder bird and their overseers will offer elixir bottles of pre punch cards and the protocol hollering thunder will announce our main man who'll bathe us and swathe us. and Our man's spur jingles'll cause the clouds to kick the dust in flight. And his gutbucketing rompity bump will cause sweaty limp flags to furl retreat and the Jackal-headed cowboy will ride reins whiplashing his brass legs and knobby hips. And fast draw Anubis with his crank letters from Ra will Gallop Gallop Gallop our mummified profiled trail boss as our swashbuckling storm fucking mob rides shot gun for the moon and the whole sieged stage coach of the...