es blank with an insect's unseeing calm.
  Behind  them,  through  open  doors,  tables  and booths
and  bars,  and  kitchens  and  baths,  copulating couples
on  rows  of  brass  beds, crisscross  of a  thousand ham-
mocks,  junkies  tying  up  for  a  shot,  opium  smokers,
hashish  smokers,  people  eating  talking   bathing  back
into a haze of smoke and steam.
  Gaming  tables  where  the  games  are  played  for  in-
credible  stakes.  From  time  to time  a player  leaps up
with a despairing  cry, having  lost his  youth to  an old
man  or  become  Latah  to  his  opponent.  But  there are
higher  stakes  than  youth  or  Latah,  games  where only
two players in the world know what the stakes are.
  All houses in the City are joined. Houses of sod  -- high
mountain  Mongols  blink  in  smokey  doorways   --  houses
of  bamboo  and  teak,  houses  of  adobe,  stone  and red
brick,  South Pacific  and Maori  houses, houses  in trees
and  river  boats,  wood  houses  one  hundred  feet  long
sheltering entire tribes, houses  of boxes  and corrugated
iron  where  old  men  sit  in  rotten  rags  cooking down
canned  heat, great  rusty iron  racks rising  two hundred
feet  in  the air  from swamps  and rubbish  with perilous
partitions  built  on  multi-levelled platforms,  and ham-
mocks swinging over the void.
  Expeditions  leave  for  unknown  places   with  unknown
purposes. Strangers arrive on rafts of old  packing crates
tied together  with rotten  rope, they  stagger in  out of
the  jungle  their  eyes swollen  shut from  insect bites,
they  come  down  the  mountain  trails on  cracked bleed-
ing feet through the  dusty windy  outskirts of  the city,
where  people  defecate   in  rows   along  adobe   walls  and
vultures   fight  over   fish  heads.   They  drop   down  into
parks  in   patched  parachutes,...   They  are   escorted  by
a  drunken  cop  to register  in a  vast public  lavatory. The
data  taken  down  is  put  on  pegs  to  be  used  as  toilet
paper.
  Cooking  smells  of  all  countries  hang  over   the  City,
a  haze  of  opium,  hashish,  the   resinous  red   smoke  of
Yage,  smell  of  the jungle  and salt  water and  the rotting
river and dried excrement and sweat and genitals.
  High   mountain   flutes,   jazz  and   bebop,  one-stringed
Mongol   instruments,   gypsy   xylophones,   African   drums,
Arab bagpipes...
  The  City  is  visited  by  epidemics  of violence,  and the
untended  dead  are   eaten  by   vultures  in   the  streets.
Albinos  blink  in  the  sun.  Boys  sit  in  trees, languidly
masturbate.   People   eaten   by   unknown   diseases   watch
the passerby with evil, knowing eyes.
  In  the  City  Market  is  the Meet  Cafe. Followers  of ob-
solete,  unthinkable  trades  doodling  in  Etruscan,  addicts
of  drugs  not  yet  synthesized,  pushers  of  souped-up Har-
maline,  junk  reduced  to  pure  habit   offering  precarious
vegetable  serenity,  liquids   to  induce   Latah,  Tithonian
longevity  serums,   black  marketeers   of  World   War  III,
excisors of telepathic sensitivity, osteopaths of  the spirit,
investigators   of  infractions   denounced  by   bland  para-
noid   chess   players,   servers   of   fragmentary  warrants
taken   down   in    hebephrenic   shorthand    charging   un-
speakable  mutilations  of  the  spirit, bureaucrats  of spec-
tral  departments,  officials  of unconstituted  police states,
a   Lesbian   dwarf   who   has   perfected   operation  Bang-
utot,  the  lung  erection  that  strangles a  sleeping enemy,
sellers  of  orgone tanks  and relaxing  machines, brokers
of  exquisite  dreams  and memories  tested on  the sensi-
tized cells of junk  sickness and  bartered for  raw mate-
rials of  the will,  doctors skilled  in the  treatment of
diseases  dormant  in  the  black  dust of  ruined cities,
gathering virulence in  the white  blood of  eyeless worms
feeling slowly to the  surface and  the human  host, mala-
dies  of  the  ocean floor  and the  stratosphere, maladies
of the  laboratory and  atomic war....  A place  where the
unknown  past  and  the  emergent  future  meet  in  a vi-
brating  soundless  hum... Larval  entities waiting  for a
Live One...
  (Section  describing   The  City   and  the   Meet  Cafe
written  in  state  of  Yage  intoxication...  Yage, Ayua-
huasca,  Pilde,  Nateema  are  Indian  names   for  Banni-
steria  Caapi,  a  fast  growing  vine  indigenous  to the
Amazon region. See discussion of Yage in Appendix. )
  Notes  from  Yage  state:  Images  fall slow  and silent
like  snow....  Serenity...  All  defenses  fall... every-
thing is free to  enter or  to go  out.... Fear  is simply
impossible....  A  beautiful  blue  substance   Hows  into
me.... I see an archaic grinning  face like  South Pacific
mask....   The   face  is   blue  purple   splotched  with
gold....
  The  room  takes  on  aspect  of  Near  East  whorehouse
with blue walls and red tasseled  lamps.... I  feel myself
turning into a Negress, the black color  silently invading
my  flesh....  Convulsions of  lust... My  legs take  on a
well  rounded  Polynesian  substance....  Everything stirs
with a writhing furtive  life.... The  room is  Near East,
Negro,  South  Pacific,  in some  familiar place  I cannot
locate....   Yage  is   space-time  travel....   The  room
seems  to  shake  and  vibrate  with  motion....   The  blood
and  substance  of  many  races,  Negro,   Polynesian,  Moun-
tain   Mongol,   Desert  Nomad,   Polyglot  Near   East,  In-
dian,   races   as   yet   unconceived  and   unborn,  passes
through   the   body....   Migrations,   incredible  journeys
through  deserts  and  jungles  and  mountains   (stasis  and
death  in  closed  mountain  valley  where  plants  grow  out
of  genitals,  vast  crustaceans hatch  inside and  break the
shell  of  body)  across  the Pacific  in an  outrigger canoe
to Easter Island,...
    (It  occurs  to  me  that  preliminary  Yage   nausea  is
motion sickness of transport to Yage state....)
    "All medicine men use  it in  their practice  to foretell
the future, locate lost  or stolen  objects, to  diagnose and
treat illness,  to name  the perpetrator  of a  crime." Since
the Indian ( straitjacket for Herr Boas -- trade joke  -- noth-
ing   so   maddens  an   anthropologist  as   Primitive  Man)
does  not  regard  any  death  as  accidental,  and  they are
unacquainted  with  their  own  self-destructive   trends  re-
ferring  to  them  contemptuously  as  "our  naked  cousins,"
or  perhaps  feeling  that  these trends  above all  are sub-
ject  to  the manipulation  of alien  and hostile  wills, any
death  is  murder.  The  medicine  man  takes  Yage  and  the
identity  of  the  murderer is  revealed to  him. As  you may
imagine,  the  deliberations  of  the  medicine   man  during
one of these jungle  inquests give  rise to  certain feelings
of uneasiness among his constituents.
    "Let's  hope  Old  Xiuptutol  don't wig  and name  one of
the boys."
    "Take a curare and relax. We got the fix in..."
    "But  if  he  wig? Picking  up on  that Nateema  all the
time  he  don't  touch  the  ground  in  twenty  years....  I
tell you, Boss, nobody can hit the stuff like  that.... It
cooks the brains...."
  "So we declare him incompetent...."
  So Xiuptutol reels out of the jungle  and says  the boys
in  the Lower  Tzpino territory  done it,  which surprises
no one.... Take it from an old  Brujo, dearie,  they don't
like surprises....
  A  funeral  passes  through  the  market. Black  coffin --
Arabic inscriptions in filigreed silver -- carried  by four
pallbearers.  Procession of  mourners singing  the funeral
song...  Clem  and  Jody  fall  in  beside  them  carrying
coffin, the corpse of a hog bursts out  of it....  The hog
is dressed in a jellaba, a keif pipe juts from  its mouth,
one hoof holds a packet of  feelthy pictures,  a mezuzzoth
hangs about its  neck.... Inscribed  on the  coffin: "This
was the noblest Arab of them all."
  They sing hideous parody  of the  funeral song  in false
Arabic. Jody can do a fake Chinese spiel that'll just kill
you -- like a hysterical ventriloquist's dummy. In fact, he
precipitated an anti-foreign riot in Shanghai that claimed
3,000 casualties.
  "Stand  up,  Gertie,  and  show  respect  for  the local
gooks."
  "I suppose one should."
  "My  dear,  I'm  working  on  the most  marvelous inven-
tion...  a  boy  who  disappears  as  soon  as   you  come
leaving a smell of burning  leaves and  a sound  effect of
distant train whistles."
  "Ever  make  sex  in  no gravity?  Your jism  just floats
out in the air  like lovely  ectoplasm, and  female guests
are  subject to  immaculate or  at least  indirect concep-
tion....  ъeminds  me  of an  old friend  of mine,  one of
the  handsomest  men  I have  ever known  and one  of the
maddest  and  absolutely  ruined  by  wealth. He  used to
go  about  with a  water pistol  shooting jism  up career
women  at  parties.  Won  all  his paternity  suits hands
down. Never use his own jism you understand."
    Fadeout... "Order in the Court." Attorney for  A. J.,
"Conclusive  tests  have established  that my  client has
no  uh personal  connection with  the uh  little accident
of the  charming plaintiff....  Perhaps she  is preparing
to  emulate  the  Virgin  Mary and  conceive immaculately
naming  my  client  as  a  hurumph  ghostly  pander.... I
am  reminded  of  a  case  in  fifteenth-century  Holland
where  a  young  woman  accused  an elderly  and respect-
able sorcerer  of conjuring  up a  succubus who  then had
uh  carnal  knowledge  of  the  young person  in question
with the  under the  circumstances regrettable  result of
pregnancy.  So  the  sorcerer was  indicted as  an accom-
plice  and  rampant  voyeur before  during and  after the
fact.  However,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  we  no longer
credit  such uh  legends; and  a young  woman attributing
her uh interesting condition to the attentions of  a suc-
cubus  would  be  accounted,  in these  enlightened days,
a  romanticist  or  in  plain English  a God  damned liar
hehe hehe heh...."

  And now The Prophet's Hour:
  "Millions died in the mud fiats. Only one blast free to
lungs.
  " 'Eye Eye, Captain,' he said, squirting his eyes out
on the deck.... And who would put on the chains to-
night? It is indicate to observe some caution in the
up-wind approach, the down wind having failed to turn
up  anything  worth  a rusty  load.... Senoritas  are the
wear this season in Hell, and  I am  tired with  the long
climb to a pulsing Vesuvius of alien pricks."
  Need Orient  Express out  of here  to no  hide place(r)
mines are frequent in the area.... Every day dig a little
it takes up the time....
  Jack off phantoms whisper hot into the bone ear....
  Shoot your way to freedom.
  "Christ?" sneers the vicious, fruity old Saint applying
pancake  from  an  alabaster  bowl....  "That  cheap ham!
You  think  I'd  demean  myself  to commit  a miracle?...
That one should have stood in carny....
  "'Step right up,  Marquesses and  Marks, and  bring the
little  Marks  too.  Good  for  young  and  old,  man and
beast.... The one  and only  legit Son  of Man  will cure
a  young boy's  clap with  one hand  -- by  contact alone,
folks -- create marijuana with  the other,  whilst walking
on  water  and squirting  wine out  his ass....  Now keep
your distance, folks, you is subject to be  irradiated by
the sheer charge of this character.'
  "And  I  knew  him  when,  dearie....  I recall  we was
doing an Impersonation  Act --  very high  class too  -- in
Sodom,  and  that  is  one  cheap town....  Strictly from
hunger...  Well,  this  citizen, this  fucking Philistine
wandered  in  from  Podunk  Baal  or  some  place, called
me a fuckin fruit right on the floor. And I said  to him:
'Three  thousand  years  in  show  business and  I always
keep my nose clean. Besides I don't  hafta take  any shit
off  any   uncircumcised  cocksucker.'...Later   he  come
to  my  dressing  room  and  made  an  apology....  Turns
out he is a big physician.  And he  was a  lovely fellah,
too....
  "Buddha? A notorious metabolic junky... Makes
his own you dig. In India, where they got no sense of
time, The Man is often a month late.... 'Now let me
see, is that the second or the third monsoon? I got like
a meet in Ketchupore about more or less.'
  "And all them junkies sitting around in the lotus
posture spitting on the ground and waiting on The Man.
  "So Buddha says: 'I don't hafta take this sound. I'll
by God metabolize my own junk.'
  "'Man, you can't do that. The ъevenooers will swarm
all over you.'
  "'Over me they won't swarm. I gotta gimmick, see?
I'm a fuckin Holy Man as of right now.'
  "'Jeez, boss, what an angle.'
  "'Now some citizens really wig when they make with
the New ъeligion. These frantic individuals do not
know how to come on. No class to them... Besides,
they is subject to be lynched like who wants somebody
hanging around being better'n other folks? "What you
trying to do, Jack, give people a bad time?..." So we
gotta play it cool, you dig, cool.... We got a take it
or leave it proposition here, folks. We don't shove any-
thing up your soul, unlike certain cheap characters who
shall be nameless and are nowhere. Clear the cave for
action. I'm gonna metabolize a speed ball and make
with the Fire Sermon.'
  "Mohammed? Are you kidding? He was dreamed up
by the Mecca Chamber of Commerce. An Egyptian ad
man on the skids from the sauce write the continuity.
  " 'I'll have one more, Gus. Then, by Allah, I will go
home and receive a Surah.... Wait'll the morning edi-
tion hits the souks. I am blasting Amalgamated Images
wide open.'
  "The bartender looks up from his racing form. 'Yeah.
And theirs will be a painful doom.'
  " 'Oh... uh... quite. Now, Gus, I'll write you a
check.'
  "'You are only being the most notorious paper hanger
in Greater Mecca. I am not a wall, Mr. Mohammed.'
  " 'Well, Gus, I got like two types publicity, favorable
and otherwise. You want some otherwise already? I am
subject to receive a Surah concerning bartenders who
extendeth not credit to those in a needy way.'
  " 'And theirs will be a painful doom. Sold Arabia.' He
vaults over the bar. 'I'm not taking any more, Ahmed.
Pick up thy Surahs and walk. In fact, I'll help you. And
stay out.'
  "'I'll fix your wagon good, you unbelieving cock-
sucker. I'll close you up tight and dry as a junky's ass-
hole. I'll by Allah dry up the Peninsula.'
  " 'It's a continent already....'
  "Leave what Confucius say stand with Little Audrey
and the shaggy dogs. Lao-Tze? They scratch him al-
ready...'. And enough of these gooey saints with a look
of pathic dismay as if they getting fucked up the ass
and try not to pay it any mind. And why should we let
some old brokendown ham tell us what wisdom is?
'Three thousand years in show business and I always
keep my nose clean....'
  "First, every Fact is incarcerate along with the male
hustlers and those who desecrate the gods of commerce
by playing ball in the streets, and some old white-
haired fuck staggers out to give us the benefits of his
ripe idiocy. Are we never to be free of this grey-beard
loon lurking on every mountain top in Tibet, subject to
drag himself out of a hut in the Amazon, waylay one
in the Bowery? 'I've been expecting you, my son,' and
he make with a silo full of corn. 'Life is a school where
every pupil must learn a different lesson. And now I
will unlock my Word Hoard....'
  " 'I do fear it much.'
  " 'Nay, nothing shall stem the rising tide.'
  " 'I can't stem him, boys. Sauve qui peut.'
  " 'I tell you when I leave the Wise Man I don't even
feel like a human. He converting my live orgones into
dead bullshit.'
  "So I got an exclusive why don't I make with the live
word? The word cannot be expressed direct.... It can
perhaps be indicated by mosaic of juxtaposition like
articles abandoned in a hotel drawer, defined by nega-
tives and absence....
  "Think I'll have my stomach tucked.... I may be
old, but I'm still desirable."
  (The Stomach Tuck is surgical intervention to re-
move stomach fat at the same time making a tuck in the
abdominal wall, thus creating a flesh corset, which is,
however, subject to break and spurt your horrible old
guts across the Boor.... The slim and shapely F.C.
models are, of course, the most dangerous. In fact, some
extreme models are known as O.N.S.-- One Night Stands
-- in the industry.
  Doctor "Doodles" ъindfest states bluntly: "Bed is
the most dangerous place for an F.C. man."
  The F.C. theme song is "Believe Me If All These
Endearing  Young  Charms."  An  F.C.  partner  is indeed
subject to "fleet from your arms like fairy gifts fading
away.")

  In a  white museum  room full  of sunlight  pink nudes
sixty feet high. Vast adolescent muttering.
  Silver guard rail... chasm a  thousand feet  down into
the glittering sunlight. Little: green plots  of cabbage
and lettuce. Brown youths  with adzes  spied by  the old
queen across a sewage canal.
  "Oh dear, I wonder  if they  fertilize with  human ex-
crement.... Maybe they'll do it right now."
  He  Hips  out mother  of pearl  opera glasses  -- Aztec
mosaic in the sun.
  Long  line  of  Greek  lads  march  up  with alabaster
bowls of shit, empty into the limestone marl hole.
  Dusty  poplars  shake  across the  red brick  Plaza de
Toros in the afternoon wind.
  Wooden  cubicles  around  a  hot  spring...  rubble of
ruined walls in  a grove  of cottonwoods...  the benches
worn smooth as metal by a million masturbating boys.
  Greek  lads  white  as  marble fuck  dog style  on the
portico  of  a  great  golden  temple...  naked  Mugwump
twangs a lute.
  Walking  down  by the  tracks in  his red  sweater met
Sammy the Dock Keeper's son with two Mexicans.
  "Hey, Skinny," he said, "want to get screwed?"
  "Well... Yeah."
  On  a  ruined  straw mattress  the Mexican  pulled him
up on all fours --  Negro boy  dance around  them beating
out the strokes... sun  through a  knot hole  pink spot-
lights his cock.
  A  waste of  raw pink  shame to  the pastel  blue horizon
where vast iron mesas crash into the shattered sky,
  "It's  all  right."  The  God  screams through  you three
thousand year rusty load....
  Hail  of  crystal  skulls  shattered  the  greenhouse  to
slivers in the winter moon....
  The  American  woman  has  left  a  whiff  of  poison be-
hind in the dank St. Louis garden party.
  Pool  covered  with  green  slime  in  a   ruined  French
garden.  Huge  pathic  frog  rises  slowly  from  the water
on a mud platform playing the clavichord.
  A Sollubi rushes into  the bar  and starts  polishing The
Saint's shoes with the oil on his nose.... The  Saint kicks
him  petulantly   in  the   mouth.  The   Sollubi  screams,
whirls  around  and  shits  on the  Saint's pants.  Then he
dashes into  the street.  A pimp  looks after  him specula-
tively....
  The  Saint  calls  the  manager:  "Jesus, Al,  what kinda
creep  joint  you  running  here?  My  brand  new  fishskin
Degagees..."
  "I'm sorry, Saint. He slipped by me."
  (The  Sollubi are  an untouchable  caste in  Arabia noted
for  their  abject  vileness.  De  luxe cafes  are equipped
with  Sollubi who  rim the  guests while  they eat  -- holes
in  the seating  benches being  provided for  this purpose.
Citizens  who  want  to  be  utterly  humiliated   and  de-
graded  --  so  many  people  do,  nowadays, hoping  to jump
the  gun  --  over  themselves  up  for  passive  homosexual
intercourse  to  an  encampment  of   Sollubis....  Nothing
lik