Michaem McClure. Poetry

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THE BEARD
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HARLOW and BILLY THE KID wear small beards of torn tissue paper.
HARLOW''S hair is in her traditional style. She wears a pale blue gown with plumed sleeves.
BILLY THE KID wears shirt, tight pants, and boots.
HARLOW has a purse.
The set contains two chairs and a table covered with furs -- there is an orange light shining on them.
The Beard was acted for the first time on December 18, 1965 at the Actor''s Workshop in San Francisco. The play was directed by Marc Estrin. The set was designed by Robert LaVigne and costumes were designed by Louise Foss. The cast was as follows:
Jean Harlow . . . . . . . . . . . . . Billie Dixon
Billy the Kid . . . . . . . . . . . Richard Bright
The Beard was first published in a presentation edition of 300 copies. The author wishes to extend his special thanks to Billie Dixon, Richard Bright, Marc Estrin, Robert LaVigne, and Marshall Krause of the ACLU -- for all we have gone through together to make a blue velvet eternity.
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Introduction
by Norman Mailer
Michael McClure''s The Beard is a mysterious piece of work, for while its surface seems simple, repetitive and obscene, there is an action working which is dramatic and comic at once, and the play emits an odd but intense field of attention, almost like a magnetic field, almost as if ghosts from two periods of the American Past were speaking across decades to each other, and yet at the same time are present in our living room undressing themselves or speaking to us of the nature of seduction, the nature of attraction, and particularly, the nature of perverse temper between a man and a woman. Obstinacy face to face with the sly feint and parry all in one, the repetitions serves almost as subway stops on that electric trip a man and a woman make if they move from the mind to the flesh. That mysterious trip, whose mystery often resides in the dilema of whether the action is extraordinarily serious or meaningless. It is with these ambiguities, these effervescences, that The Beard plays, masterfully, be it said, like a juggler.
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HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me! Which one will you pursue?
THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?
HARLOW: Because I''m so beautiful.
THE KID: So what!
HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am.
THE KID: Oh yeah!
HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me! Which one will you pursue?
THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?
HARLOW: Because I''m so beautiful.
THE KID: So what?
HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am.
THE KID: Oh yeah! (Pause. He grabs her arm.)
I''VE GOT YOU!
HARLOW: It''s an illusion.
THE KID: (Squeezing her arm and raising it) You mean this meat isn''t you?
HARLOW: What do you think?
THE KID: What makes you think you''re so beautiful?
HARLOW: Oh, my thighs . . . my voice . . .
THE KID: What about your hair . . .?
HARLOW: What do you think?
THE KID: Your hair came out of a bottle.
HARLOW: You''re full of shit! My hair is beautiful and it didn''t come out of a bottle -- it''s like this.
THE KID: Show me your baby pictures!
HARLOW: You''re crazy! Why?
THE KID: To see your hair!
HARLOW: You ARE jealous.
THE KID: You''re full of shit!
HARLOW: It''s blond -- don''t worry! You''ve got buck teeth!
THE KID: SHUT UP!
HARLOW: You''d like to be beautiful! Maybe you''d even like to be pretty. You wear your hair down to your shoulders. Maybe you''d like to be a chick!
THE KID: (He takes hold of her arm -- rolls it in his fingers) THIS IS NOTHING BUT MEAT! (He sneers)
HARLOW: Before you can pry any secrets from me, you must first find the real me!
THE KID: What makes you think I want to pry secrets from you?
HARLOW: Because I''m so beautiful.
THE KID: So what!
HARLOW: You want to be as beautiful as I am!
THE KID: OH yeah!
THIS IS NOTHING BUT MEAT! (He squeezes her bare arm and rolls it in his fingers.) --Why should I want to be beautiful?
HARLOW: Oh. . . You''re a man.
THE KID: Yeah?
HARLOW: You''re a man . . . And men want to be beautiful.
THE KID: I''m sick of that word . . . it makes me want to puke!
YOU''RE A BAG OF MEAT!
HARLOW: What word?
THE KID: Beautiful. I''m sick of hearing that word coming from a bag of meat.
HARLOW: Don''t touch my arm again!
THE KID: Or?
HARLOW: I''ll cut your dumb brain open like a bag of meat!
-- Don''t you think I''m . . . lovely . . .
THE KID: You smell like myrrh. Come and sit on my lap. (He pulls her arm)
HARLOW: What if somebody came in and looked!
THE KID: In eternity. There''s nobody here!
HARLOW: You said I''m a bag of meat! And you said shit about my hair.
THE KID: Maybe I love you.
HARLOW: You''re full of shit. WHO CAN LOVE IN ETERNITY?
THE KID: (With sureness) Sit on my lap.
HARLOW: You''re a million miles away, Sweet.
THE KID: Not in eternity! . . . Sit on my lap!
HARLOW: FUCK YOU!
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from Rare Angel (1974)
________________________________________
RAVEN''S FEATHER, EAGLE''S CLAW, EVERY
SONG EVER CHANTED
by the whale hunter
is a collector''s item
and wafts like mountain fog
from node to node before becoming clouds.
EVERY
BACKWARD
LOOK
puts us in touch with sentiment,
and hurts less than peering forward,
for tomorrow is the shadow of today.
Even the blue jay
gloats over his stash
of brass buttons. See the octopus play
with the exoskeleton
of his prey.
The statement''s convolution
confounds what is already done.
Bulldozed hillsides.
Scarlet flower bugles on the mountain top
overlook the graveyard.
Such elegant music when we make it
(for poets call it music)
surprises
US
in the act
of what we do.
The hand plays hide and seek
with the eye, and we grow
great brains
in honor of the game.
Then we dance and the music
follows at our footsteps
and we stop to listen
as it passes by.
WE
HEAR
THE MUSIC
OF
our selves!
Call it animal nature -- or name it Civilization.
* * *
SPARROW HAWK SKULLCAP, LIGHTNING BOLT
THAT PASSES
THROUGH THE HAND.
WAVES OF CREATURES FLOATING
AT THE EDGE OF FIRE
dive into the air and bound
through space with grace
we nearly comprehend.
Bodies: brown and black and white all blended.
Hoofed and leaping.
TURQUOISE.
CHROME! Berries and Packards all exploding, lined
with fur for force fields.
DESTRUCTION UNROLLED UPON THE PLEISTOCENE
where we stride in luscious comfort,
and love our children,
hug our pets,
experience
the alchemy of being.
THE FEW OF US LIKE WAR CHIEFS
AND LOVE-GOD PRINCES
STAND ON THE PRECIPICE WITH FOLDED ARMS.
THIS
LIFE
has
been
nothing
for
me
but
pleasure.
The worst adversity
is only a length
I measure.
I direct creation of my bed of eider blackness
and drink the juice of apples
as I sup on flesh of crabs.
I
hold great minds
that lived before me
in my hands.
I KNOW THE MEANING OF THE POWER
THAT IS CHANNELED FOR ME. AND I
calmly watch the poisons
splashed across the land.

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