The Venice Beat Poets – The Great River Outside the Mainstream
– JAMES RYAN MORRIS
By Shanna
Moore
Winter of 1959 and the
boardwalk was bare, riding my bicycle along the boardwalk from Santa Monica down
the coast. I'd stop at the Carousel, a gay bar on the Venice boardwalk where all
the dudes and dudettes did a line dance...I loved joining in. One day this guy
with the eyes of the ocean was sitting on a table watching me dance...our eyes
met and never moved away, this poet taking me in as I was digging those eyes.
Later we talked and walked, my bicycle between us, from Venice to Santa Monica.
He just blew in from New York, this man of many words; I had a suitcase full of
poetry I had written and never showed anyone and I wanted to show
him.
This was only the beginning; we were
constantly together and finally he hocked his typewriter and rented the whole
basement of what is now the Morrison, just kitty corner from the Gas House where
I worked as the art director. We lived in the basement, Tony Scibella, and
Bruce Boyd Jimmy and myself. We rented four apartments, two were water-logged at
high tide; 20 dollars a month, what a deal.
the
rhythm
of the beat
poetry
wail of a soprano
sax
Billie Holliday was Jimmy's muse - he wrote for her, he wrote of her, he dried
her tears and set them to paper; the lady, the inhumanity of the men in her
life, man and the system and their wars, the blues . Jimmy blew bare fist to
bone but softly, he cared. Tony was softer still and Stu bellowed it out. The
Venice West, the other end of the tram ride, had more poetry... fingers
snappin' instead of applause...one hand clapping... so the establishment
wouldn't shut us down..The words a warning - would they listen?
the
first drumming
echoes
across
the sands of
time
Jimmy wrote a story for Hollywood of Billie but they weren't ready for such
stark reality. Instead the story Diana Ross played was so far from what he knew
and saw. He lived in her neighborhood, he new her blues, he felt her pain, he
lived for Billie Holiday and it was her essence that traveled the cobblestone
breezeway, her song. He wrote the blues, blowing ever so soft the fragrance of a
white gardenia.
We were all destined to
meet, the Lady brought us there, to cry out to each other, the poets with their
ax's honed, their words like acid rain, their humanity
showing...break/straight.. ah yes ringside with the off the wall poets and the
lady. Man and the system and their wars..the blues and reaching for the
stars..touching the face of god..all part of the movement..these poets of Venice
set out to change.. ...Jimmy blew
Lawrence
Lipton
sold us
out
the tourists
came
We
exploded into the minds of many. They came wanting to see these bards of
protest, huarache's flappin' on the cobblestone breezeway. Tourists who rode
the tram pay a dime see the freaks. From the Gas House to the Venice West they
rode, we laughed at them and walked, our dimes were for a cup of coffee and a
table to sit and write.
bare self to
bone
in
search
of the
answers
I've planted a Koa tree in your honor, oh
Venice poets,
on the top of the mountain in
Hawaii next to madam Pele
"The Poet Tree"
where sun and mist
live
and the tradewinds
blow.
I hang poetry on the
limbs
and sometimes they blow
away
words on the
wind.
I
always said the eyes have it, your eyes and the fetch of a wave. You said,
"it’s the legs, baby, riding through my dreams"..what a winter of love and
no one but us on the boardwalk, the poets waitin' on the pome...a few locals
and the surf and sand...
so many
words
inspired by the
lady
dance through the pages of
time
the "Lady" walked with
us...
held our
hands
sang with
us.
The Venice Beat
Poets
–The Great River Outside the
Mainstream –
JAMES RYAN
MORRIS
By Shanna
Moore
Winter of 1959 and the boardwalk was
bare, riding my bicycle along the boardwalk from Santa Monica down the coast.
I'd stop at the Carousel, a gay bar on the Venice boardwalk where all the dudes
and dudettes did a line dance...I loved joining in. One day this guy with the
eyes of the ocean was sitting on a table watching me dance...our eyes met and
never moved away, this poet taking me in as I was digging those eyes. Later we
talked and walked, my bicycle between us, from Venice to Santa Monica. He just
blew in from New York, this man of many words; I had a suitcase full of poetry I
had written and never showed anyone and I wanted to show
him.
This was only the beginning; we were
constantly together and finally he hocked his typewriter and rented the whole
basement of what is now the Morrison, just kitty corner from the Gas House where
I worked as the art director. We lived in the basement, Tony Scibella, and
Bruce Boyd Jimmy and myself. We rented four apartments, two were water-logged at
high tide; 20 dollars a month, what a deal.
the
rhythm
of the beat
poetry
wail of a soprano
sax
Billie Holliday was Jimmy's muse - he wrote for her, he wrote of her, he dried
her tears and set them to paper; the lady, the inhumanity of the men in her
life, man and the system and their wars, the blues . Jimmy blew bare fist to
bone but softly, he cared. Tony was softer still and Stu bellowed it out. The
Venice West, the other end of the tram ride, had more poetry... fingers
snappin' instead of applause...one hand clapping... so the establishment
wouldn't shut us down..The words a warning - would they listen?
the
first drumming
echoes
across
the sands of
time
Jimmy wrote a story for Hollywood of Billie but they weren't ready for such
stark reality. Instead the story Diana Ross played was so far from what he knew
and saw. He lived in her neighborhood, he new her blues, he felt her pain, he
lived for Billie Holiday and it was her essence that traveled the cobblestone
breezeway, her song. He wrote the blues, blowing ever so soft the fragrance of a
white gardenia.
We were all destined to
meet, the Lady brought us there, to cry out to each other, the poets with their
ax's honed, their words like acid rain, their humanity
showing...break/straight.. ah yes ringside with the off the wall poets and the
lady. Man and the system and their wars..the blues and reaching for the
stars..touching the face of god..all part of the movement..these poets of Venice
set out to change.. ...Jimmy blew
Lawrence
Lipton
sold us
out
the tourists
came
We
exploded into the minds of many. They came wanting to see these bards of
protest, huarache's flappin' on the cobblestone breezeway. Tourists who rode
the tram pay a dime see the freaks. From the Gas House to the Venice West they
rode, we laughed at them and walked, our dimes were for a cup of coffee and a
table to sit and write.
bare self to
bone
in
search
of the
answers
I've planted a Koa tree in your honor, oh
Venice poets,
on the top of the mountain in
Hawaii next to madam Pele
"The Poet Tree"
where sun and mist
live
and the tradewinds
blow.
I hang poetry on the
limbs
and sometimes they blow
away
words on the
wind.
I
always said the eyes have it, your eyes and the fetch of a wave. You said,
"it’s the legs, baby, riding through my dreams"..what a winter of love and
no one but us on the boardwalk, the poets waitin' on the pome...a few locals
and the surf and sand...
so many
words
inspired by the
lady
dance through the pages of
time
the "Lady" walked with
us...
held our
hands
sang with us.The Venice Beat
Poets
–The Great River Outside the
Mainstream –
JAMES RYAN
MORRIS
By Shanna
Moore
Winter of 1959 and the boardwalk was
bare, riding my bicycle along the boardwalk from Santa Monica down the coast.
I'd stop at the Carousel, a gay bar on the Venice boardwalk where all the dudes
and dudettes did a line dance...I loved joining in. One day this guy with the
eyes of the ocean was sitting on a table watching me dance...our eyes met and
never moved away, this poet taking me in as I was digging those eyes. Later we
talked and walked, my bicycle between us, from Venice to Santa Monica. He just
blew in from New York, this man of many words; I had a suitcase full of poetry I
had written and never showed anyone and I wanted to show
him.
This was only the beginning; we were
constantly together and finally he hocked his typewriter and rented the whole
basement of what is now the Morrison, just kitty corner from the Gas House where
I worked as the art director. We lived in the basement, Tony Scibella, and
Bruce Boyd Jimmy and myself. We rented four apartments, two were water-logged at
high tide; 20 dollars a month, what a deal.
the
rhythm
of the beat
poetry
wail of a soprano
sax
Billie Holliday was Jimmy's muse - he wrote for her, he wrote of her, he dried
her tears and set them to paper; the lady, the inhumanity of the men in her
life, man and the system and their wars, the blues . Jimmy blew bare fist to
bone but softly, he cared. Tony was softer still and Stu bellowed it out. The
Venice West, the other end of the tram ride, had more poetry... fingers
snappin' instead of applause...one hand clapping... so the establishment
wouldn't shut us down..The words a warning - would they listen?
the
first drumming
echoes
across
the sands of
time
Jimmy wrote a story for Hollywood of Billie but they weren't ready for such
stark reality. Instead the story Diana Ross played was so far from what he knew
and saw. He lived in her neighborhood, he new her blues, he felt her pain, he
lived for Billie Holiday and it was her essence that traveled the cobblestone
breezeway, her song. He wrote the blues, blowing ever so soft the fragrance of a
white gardenia.
We were all destined to
meet, the Lady brought us there, to cry out to each other, the poets with their
ax's honed, their words like acid rain, their humanity
showing...break/straight.. ah yes ringside with the off the wall poets and the
lady. Man and the system and their wars..the blues and reaching for the
stars..touching the face of god..all part of the movement..these poets of Venice
set out to change.. ...Jimmy blew
Lawrence
Lipton
sold us
out
the tourists
came
We
exploded into the minds of many. They came wanting to see these bards of
protest, huarache's flappin' on the cobblestone breezeway. Tourists who rode
the tram pay a dime see the freaks. From the Gas House to the Venice West they
rode, we laughed at them and walked, our dimes were for a cup of coffee and a
table to sit and write.
bare self to
bone
in
search
of the
answers
I've planted a Koa tree in your honor, oh
Venice poets,
on the top of the mountain in
Hawaii next to madam Pele
"The Poet Tree"
where sun and mist
live
and the tradewinds
blow.
I hang poetry on the
limbs
and sometimes they blow
away
words on the
wind.
I
always said the eyes have it, your eyes and the fetch of a wave. You said,
"it’s the legs, baby, riding through my dreams"..what a winter of love and
no one but us on the boardwalk, the poets waitin' on the pome...a few locals
and the surf and sand...
so many
words
inspired by the
lady
dance through the pages of
time
the "Lady" walked with
us...
held our
hands
sang with
us.
and then
...
there were those
that would bring us to our
knees..
The Killer
Summer
drugs and
death
but that's another story
Posted: Tue - April 1, 2008 at 08:06 PM
