Joe Maynard

Joe is editor of Beet magazine (Box 879, NYC, 10021-0002). The following

is reprinted from _Crimes of the Beats_ which I can heartily recommend as a

wonderfully irreverent intro to the Loisaida scene. RealPoetik doesn't do

reprints as a rule, but Joe and I ran into technical problems.

The Three Beats

"Pass the salt," Cassady grunted. But Kerouac sat across the table

ignoring him, chewing lettuce from a diner salad that smelled like rice

pudding, listening to Ginsberg puking in the john at the back of the dining

room.

"Pass the salt, Jack."

It was strange, Kerouac was thinking, but if you concentrated, Ginsberg's

puking was the only thing you could hear. The ice machine, the radio, the

dishwasher, the crackling deep fryer, they all faded away into a white noise

that reconstituted itself through Ginsberg's vomit.

"Jack!" Cassady shouted, "The salt!"

Kerouac snapped out of it and looked at Cassady's maniacal stare that

tried unsuccessfully to bore a hole in his thick head.

"How can you eat?" Kerouac asked.

"What do you mean? He didn't get sick from food, he got sick from not

eating enough food before we started drinking."

"Food? This is no food thing."

"Then pass the goddamn salt, sweet-cakes."

"Here." Kerouac said, slapping the small glass shaker on the greasy

formica, with perfect pitch resembling that of a firecracker, not too

aggressive or subtle, just presence enough to say I'm here, fuck you.

But this highly evolved percussive moment was wasted on Cassady who already

was into the next moment, that of salting. He'd dressed his burger in the

moment before last, and the perfect steaming burger and fries moment would

soon vanish if he didn't move quick. Must sprinkle an even layer of salt

while the hot grease dances on the surface of the fries. Must mix the top

crust of salt crystals through the pile for even distribution with potatoes

and catsup. Must take the still steaming burger in hand. Must fill mouth.

Must crunch lettuce through meat. Must stuff fries into mouth while burger

is still there. Must, must, must...

Kerouac watched, disgusted more with his dud of an order than with

Cassady's table manners. Salad. What was he thinking? He was ripping drunk,

but so what? That never impaired his judgment before. He looked at Ginsberg's

turkey club, which sat regal like a castle on a mountain, two toothpicks

perched on top waving shredded cellophane flags of amber and crimson. He

switched plates and ate like nobody's business.

"What a hypocrite," Cassady mumbled while Kerouac stuffed his middle

eye to capacity. It wasn't a pretty sight. He'd aged like hell. Thank

god his mother wasn't around to see it.

Ginsberg finished vomiting and gargled in front of the mirror. His

hair was in horizontal flight like Bozo the clown, but he knew he was a better

poet. On the other hand, Bozo had Butchy Boy, and who did Ginsberg have?

A couple of middle-aged has-beens? Although Cassady did keep his muscle

tone, he smelled like vinegar, and his body was increasingly more boxed-

shapped, void of presence, just thick like heavy cake. One last look in the

mirror and Ginsberg marched back into the dining room like the King of Comedy.

"Salad?" he said looking at the other two. "Salad?"

"Yeah, salad," Kerouac mumbled through flying bits of turkey, tomato

and mayonnaise. "That's what you ordered, isn't it?"

"No!" Ginsberg said, trying to remember exactly what he did order. "I

don't eat salad!" He'd been drinking, he thought, but he wasn't drunk.

Actually, after puking, he was completely sober. "Waiter!" he shouted, "I

didn't order salad!"

The lanky, zit-clad Greek boy folded his sports section, and rose from

his booth by the door determined to nip this one in the bud. With his hands

clasped behind his back, shoulders straight, chest out, he looked down at

the three aging misfits. "You order cheesburger, you order salad, you order

turr-r-rekey club, you sweetch tur-re-key club with friend, not my fault."

And with that he returned to his booth mumbling curses in Greek.

"How could you let another customer take my food!" Ginsberg shouted at

the Greek. "You can't just let everybody who walks in here take each other's

food! That's, that's outrageous!"

"You don't know what you're talking about," the Greek said, not giving

merit to the old drunk's rant.

But this drunk was Allen Ginsberg! And he stood up, slapped his palm

on the table, and dilating his diaphragm like Pavoratti wailed, "I know

EXACTLY what I'm taling about! I AM A POET! I AM THE GREAT ALLEN GINSBE-

E-R-R-G!"

"Goddammit Ginsberg," Cassady gasped, "Brush your teeth before this

place catches fire."

Ginsberg looked down at Cassady. His eyelids disappeared into the

back of his head. His face turned beet red. "What do YOU know you pathetic

cretin!" And with that, he stuck his middle and index fingers in Cassady's

nostrils, raising him from his chair. Kerouac jumped in by slapping Ginsberg

and going, "Yuk, yuk yuk." The 3 beat stooges slapped and quacked as if

their inner comics had finally realized _their_ moment of glory. The room

was filled with drunken pandemonium, plates falling to the floor, tables

turning, catsup flying, coffee spilling. The Greek panicked. Picking up

a spatual from the grill, he charged the 3, swatting and kicking them out

the door.

The 3 beats lay in a pile on the sidewalk. Their legs intertwined like

scrap metal in a junk heap. Ginsberg looked around the street. There were

Gaps and Blockbusters, Pizzeria Unos and Loews quadroplexes. A T-shirt clad

teenager was waling towards them, and hoping the young man would help him up,

Ginsberg extended a needy hand.

"Sorry, old man," the boy said, walking by, "No change."

Joe Maynard

Forrester cradLEIng rocks

Swift airtight MONOlith

Cr*ing thimbles to Ti Kwan Do

Forever and for EVEr

In Pixie L

Ane.

Tiki TVi

TT

*ash

Clean Underwear

Until she scratches the nipples from her teat,

she circles then, GRRR! She cries

sniffing the borders of your property where you met her.

It angers her that every inch she invades in you is only her,

no longer you.

Like an animal balloon you squeeze

certain the air is trapped

but forms pop out where you don't expect

tightly bound worlds of expanding rubber punching space in the gut.

White and proud and clean as silk.

Your she-wolf sees all the laundry pin by pin

on a line of excuses woven from your grandfather's jokes.

Don't tell the Sargeant that your shorts are cleaner than his,

but it is a happy day for all the fun inside you.

She races through the street in white boxers

While puss scabs on the breast of the rancid teat

gagging the gullets of proverbial children

while the real ones claim they suffer from microphobia,

a disease you get from stars.

Must build a vomit road to the sky

till paine nuts fall from quasars

and the night is a safe but empty swirling galaxy,

spinning a yarn of ethnic diversity out of starless inertia.

Joe Maynard