Neck Ties & Tortured Socks

"Pull my daisy
Tip my cup,
All my doors are open.
Cut my thoughts for coconuts,
All my eggs are broken."
Anita Ellis

I gotta hand it to the kids -- This whole internet bag is mighty stuff. Dig, I'm laying in bed, right. It's early morning and I got no where to go so I flip through an old magazine -- From '59 when men were men and knew how to part their hair. Anyway, I read a movie review for a Jack Kerouac short film called, "Pull My Daisy." I'm grooving on the title and assume there's gotta be some wicked sex.

I drop the magazine to the floor where it plops on neck ties and tortured socks. I grab my phone, do a Google search and up pops a You Tube clip for Pull My Daisy. It's B&W, made in '59 and is under 30 minutes. Opening scene of a skinny '50s chick opening windows of a lower east side loft grabs me by the gonads. The photography is outta sight. No small wonder since the man shooting it was Robert Frank.

It looks raw, all cinema verite like. Later I read the whole thing was well rehearsed and planned out but you'd never know, man. The story? It makes no sense. The chick is an artist who shares the flat with her son and husband, a railroad brakeman. I mean, the cat's a brakeman? Don't they all live in Linden? But it's cool 'cause Kerouac narrates and he's all you hear - like you need to hear anything else.

Allen Ginsberg comes over and shoots the shit with Gregory Corso, Larry Rivers and Peter Orlovsky. There's a lotta smoking and drinking. Arguing. Shouting. But you hear none of it, man. Only Jack's poetry. It's a wild little flick. I'm watching.  In bed. On my phone. Secret scatological thought, man.