Penned by film actor rocker neo beat poet Antonio Pineda
It all began once upon a time long ago, in a psychedelic city far far away.
Beat poet Michael McClure resided on Downey street, across the street from George Hunter founder of the Charlatans. Hunter Thompson lived around the block on Belvedere Street, and the Grateful Dead lived not far away on Ashbury. It was in foggy November as I wandered Lysergic through the hallowed lanes of Haight Ashbury that I arrived at the Victorian flat where McClure resided. The poet opened wide the door, he who dreamed dreams never dreamt before, and escorted me up the apples and the pears. James Douglas Morrison sat there bearded and hirsute. He was casual and unaffected, and greeted my introduction warmly. McClure and Morrison were deep in conversation in a poetry project envisioned by the working title, The Lords and New Creatures. The Lizard King was in his element, McClure brought out the divine in him. Jim waxed eloquent on cabbages and kings, inspired by the voices of the Beat Generation. Jim’s reading voice was also influenced by McClure.
As I rose to depart, I reminded them that the Living Theater would be performing at the Straight Theater the following week. Jim arched a cinematic eyebrow, and replied he would fall by.
That night at the Straight Theater. McClure and Morrison were there to participate in an experimental theater troupe, political advocates of peace and change in society. The Lizard King and McClure were well into their cups. There is a photo of them backstage. McClure is leading the wolf pack, and giving the middle finger to the photographer.
Days later in front of Peppermint Go-Go, Jim espied us and waved Teresa and I over to the bar. Jim winked at me and enquired if I had anything more mind expanding. I reached inside my pocket and revealed a vial of capsules of needlepoint mescaline. Jim grabbed two and popped them straightaway. No one seemed to recognize Jim. Ecstatic waves overcame us as we tripped in our own world. Last call for alcohol. We followed Jim out and stood on Broadway. The sky dreamed of the perfection of eternity. Teresa and Jim exchanged sweet farewells. Jim gave me a hug and complimented me on the mescaline, then he stalked off and disappeared into the SF night. A diamond diadem of stars burned in the firmament. As I reflect on the Magick of yesteryear, and confront the reality of contemporary gun violence and financial-racial inequality, there is naught to say except:
MAKE AMERICA TRIP AGAIN.
FULL-LENGTH VERSION (unedited)
According to Straight on the Haight, historical chronicles composed by Reg Williams, it all began once upon a time long ago, in a psychedelic city state far far away.
Circa 1964 Reg stumbled upon the Haight Movie Theater in a state of mothballs and disrepair. Reg consorted with his high school and University chums to reopen it as a psychedelic dance palace and cultural center rebranded as, The Straight Theater.
Located at the crossroads of Haight and Cole streets, the theater had to undergo renovations. The seats on the ground floor were torn out in order to build a dance floor worthy of a psychedelic dance palace. The Grateful Dead famously used this site as a rehearsal hall prior to the opening. The opening was rescheduled for a later date, so Reg Williams and his merry men organized a debut concert to benefit the theater at Chet Helm’s legendary Avalon Ballroom.
Billed as a night of poetry, music, and theater, the headliner was iconic Beat poet Michael McClure, a one act theater piece By Ed Bullins and Black Arts West followed by music from the Grateful Dead,Wildflower, and The Outfit. Reg Williams awarded me the honor of introducing McClure onstage to perform a reading of Ghost Tantras.
A decade after his mythic 1955 performance at Six Gallery – where Ginsberg premiered Howl, and Phillip Whalen, Phillip Lamantia , and Gary Snyder performed kicking off the West Coat Beat movement and the San Francisco Renaissance- that McClure exerted his influence over the young guns of the Straight Theater.
McClure also premiered The Blossom, a one act play from his Billy the Kid trilogy at the Straight Theater. I was cast in the undercard. Bill Tara formerly of the Firehouse Theater directed, and Johnny Hombre produced, The Philosopher’s Stone wherein I portrayed the Harlequin. Based on the oeuvre of Antonin Artaud, it was a mimodrama considered avant garde for the day, attributed to the Theater of Cruelty.
McClure resided on Downey street, across the street from George Hunter founder of the Charlatans. Hunter Thompson, author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, lived around the block on Belvedere street, and Michael’s chum the filmmaker Bruce Conner who was also from the great state of Kansas, lived on Carl street. The Grateful Dead lived not far away on Ashbury street
I muse upon the celebration of January 14 1967. The Human Be-In in Golden Gate Park was attended by an audience of 30,000 paisley day trippers. It was the brainchild of the Psychedelic Rangers that invented this historical treasure. The Rangers were musician -film producer Harry Tsvi Strauch, painter Michael Bowen, photographer -author Gene Anthony, Ron Thelin from the Psychedelic Shop, and Allen Cohen poet-editor of the Oracle, who branded it as the gathering of the tribes.
Fortified by a potent dose of White Lightning, I tripped and danced with the bohemians and outlaws, Rebels and recusants, Hells Angels and, all the beautiful people. Augustus Stanley Owsley aka The Bear, had created White Lightning especially for this auspicious event. The enchanted potion was distributed freely to all comers.
The music of the San Francisco Sound entertained the worshippers of beauty and truth. The Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Big Brother& The Holding Company, Country Joe and the Fish, and Blue Cheer enhanced the trip under the spell of White Lightning.
It was written in the stars. The Beat Culture was to initiate the devotees into the Elysian mysteries. Ginsberg chanted mantras on stage. Gary Snyder shared his Zen musings of the universe. The British writer Barry Miles had bestowed upon Michael McClure the title of, Prince of the Counterculture. The Midwinters’ Lysergic Day Dream was heralded by McClure strumming on his autoharp, declaiming magick poetry. The litterateurs understood that generational art movements should pass the sacred fire on to the younger generation. The only thing forbidden was to forbid, and nothing was impossible.
The tribes have long since dispersed, but their progeny and cultural admirers have been the genesis of the Neo Psychedelic Renaissance, as the young and old champion the virtues of Albert Hoffman, the scientist-humanist who created LSD, and his famous bicycle ride on LSD in 1943, when he accidentally ingested the chemical in his laboratory that kicked off this amazing phenomenon. As it is written, so shall it be done Grandmaster.
And so it came to pass: How distinctly I remember it was in foggy November as I wandered Lysergic through the hallowed lanes of Haight Ashbury that I arrived at the Victorian flat where McClure resided.
The poet opened wide the door, he who dreamed dreams never dreamt before, and escorted me up the apples and the pears. James Douglas Morrison sat there bearded and hirsute. He was casual and unaffected, and greeted my introduction warmly. McClure was a fan of the Doors’ psychedelic rock, and complimented him on his lyric poetry. The Doors Connection was later to flourish in McClure’s spoken word collaboration with the band’s keyboard artist Ray Manzarek, bringing the generations together in poetry and music.
McClure and Morrison were deep in conversation in a poetry project envisioned by the working title, The Lords and New Creatures. This was to be a two volume issue of personalized poems dealing with love, fame, divinity and death. It would eventually be published in 1969.
The Lizard King was in his element, McClure brought out the divine in him, Jim waxed eloquent on cabbages and kings, inspired by the voices of the Beat Generation. Jim’s reading voice was also influenced by McClure. Jim would perform poetry readings in the sonorous light baritone delivery that McClure had perfected over the years. As I rose to depart, I reminded them that the Living Theater would be performing at the Straight Theater the following week. Jim arched a cinematic eyebrow, and replied he would fall by.
McClure introduced me to the great and the good of Literati Society. I met Free Wheelin Frank Reynolds the Hells Angels poet at Michael’s flat in the same fashion. Frank and McClure were working on a volume of prose soon published entitled, Free Wheelin Frank secretary to the Angels as told to Michael McClure. Frank and I struck it up, and when he was in San Francisco General hospitalized with broken legs from a motorcycle crash, I visited him and Frank was forever kind to me, although he could be fearsome with others. Frank performed his poetry at The Last Waltz, n important event of poetry and song, hosted at Winterland, was introduced to Zen by the Beats, and changed his lifestyle to become a creative asset to society.
The Living Theater, directed by Julian Beck and Judith Malina, performed Paradise Now at the Straight Theater. McClure and Jim Morrison were there to participate in this much vaunted event. The experimental theater troupe were political advocates of peace and change in society.
The performers were wont to disrobe on stage, and encourage audience participation. The Lizard King and McClure were well into their cups. There is a famous photo of them backstage. McClure is leading the wolf pack, and giving the middle finger to the photographer. A bearded Jim follows with arms cradling six packs of beer. Pamela Courson, Jim’s beautiful partner stands demurely behind. The Beat poet and his protege The New Lord stormed on stage, and entered into the sacrament of immersion. The generations had come full circle.
My friend Teresa, with whom I had studied Modern Dance Martha Graham technique under the aegis of Caitlin Huggins at the Straight Theater, offered me a gig. A fashionable night club in North Beach needed a dance duo to perform a love act. The premise as was the fashion of the day, was to pounce about and perform an erotic cabaret act, simulating sex without performing the illegal on stage act.
Teresa and I departed the club after the show. We strolled past Enrico’s on Broadway, and crossed by the Condor Club, until we were in front of The Peppermint Go-Go. Jim Morrison espied us and waved us over to the bar. We strolled to his side as he dug the sexy dancers, and beamed an engaging smile at us.
The Peppermint was a cosy environment with one small stage that could accommodate two dancers. Jim invited us to cocktails. Charming and gallant he complimented Teresa on her sultry Latina visage. Enchanted by his gallantry, Teresa kissed him on each cheek.
Jim winked at me and enquired if I had anything more mind expanding. I reached inside my pocket and revealed a vial of capsules of needlepoint mescaline. Now that the statute of limitations has long since expired, I can disclose that Jim grabbed two and popped them straightaway. Teresa and I consumed the remaining two.
The dancers took on a new glow as they glittered to rock n roll. Jim’s eyes sparkled as he spake eloquently on Beat poetics. I informed him McClure had introduced me to Richard Brautigan, who had subsequently performed a reading at the Straight Theater. He revealed he was a fervent admirer of Brautigan. Time stood still, as within the Temple of Poetry, the immortals seemed to speak from a labyrinth of mysteries.
Oddly enough no one seemed to recognize him. Ecstatic waves overcame
us as we tripped in our own world. The bartender announced last call for alcohol. Blue nebulae tinted Jim’s profile. We followed Jim out and stood about on the Broadway.
The sky dreamed of the perfection of eternity. Teresa and Jim exchanged kisses and sweet farewells. Jim gave me a hug and complimented me on the mescaline, then he stalked off and disappeared into the San Francisco night. A diamond diadem of stars burned in the firmament.
The Lizard King now resides in the Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, where James Douglas Morrison is entombed with the immortals like Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf. Pilgrims visit his grave and the tombs of the beautiful and damned whose culture granted them eternal life. As I reflect on the Magick of yesteryear, and confront the reality of contemporary gun violence and financial- racial inequality, there is naught to say except- MAKE AMERICA TRIP AGAIN.
