This heir sometimes transcribes perfect modern lyrics
anyone can dig: "Italian Extravaganza," "Birthplace Re-
visited," "Last Gangster," "Mad Yak," "Furnished Room,"
"Haarlem," "Last Night I Drove a Car," "Ecce Homo,"
"Hello."

A rare sad goonish knowledge with reality--a hip piss on
reality also--he prefers his dreams. Why not? His Heaven
is Poetry. He explains at length in the great unpublished
"Power":

I do not sing of dictatorial power.
The stiff arm of dictatorship is symbolic of awful power.
In my room I have gathered enough gasoline and evi-
dence to allow dictators inexhaustible power.
Am I the stiff arm of Costa Rica?
Do I wear red and green in Chrysler Squads?
Do I hate my people?
Will they forgive me their taxes?
Am I to be shot at the racetrack? Do they plot now?
. . . . . . .

Beautiful people, you too are power. I remember your
power.
I have not forgotten you in the snows of Bavaria skiing
down on the sleeping village with flares and carbines,
I have not forgotten you rubbing your greasy hands on
my aircraft, signing your obscure names on the block-
buster!

-8-