From: Los Angeles Free Press - August 11, 1967

Thirty-three and two-thirds
by Liza Williams

So high I'll never come down, unfurl the wings of Mind up with
the pomegranate sky. sky lips suck day to oblivion night, whoosh
float mind on sinew cloud, swirl memories of the minute composed
of expectation and the sense of the passage of everything. Go. Go
with the time no time now and just about to be now, touch the soft
to hard to fur to slippery everything about me, the floor with its
striations between the wood so that it is either the wood that supports
me or the nothing inbetween the vood that prevents me and the walls
that outline me and the ceiling that will not permit me to go, up. so
high I'll never come down.

Turned on to self, turned on to l>eing turned on to self. Switch.
light. Sound from the record plaver, la la, la la la la, Country Joe
and the Fish serenade me, my friend Country Joe, I never knew you,
you were so tar away, now you are here to stay, filling the room with
the intimacy of your sound, you are mine to be with at all times,
lying here alone with you, walking from room to room with you, you
could be only the paper you are printed on, only the plastic disc you
are inscribed on, and you would be fulfilled for me. I need you only
through your sound, .that is your reality and no one can tell me you
are meat and bone, and if they do, I don't care and never want '.o
meet you having you already, twenty-four hours, a week, months of
you in the only guise I need you. People vanish into discs, they are
non-corporeal, but I don't care, and you don't need to hide in my
closet and sing for me for us to do our thing together.

Mr. McNamara, my enemy, is eating a boiled egg on the White House
lawn and planning strategy. I shall not escape his vengeance, though he
is only the voice over the radio, the name in the paper, the myth of
his picture. (If they switch tlie captions I might hate and fear any other
face they transposed.) You're not real is what I am saying unless I
can lick your arm in the twilight. But you arc real because you take
my life with you, parcel it out to plans I never voted for, where are
vou, will I ever come down.

I believe in the calendar that tells me when the month has ended,
what month? I believe in the time that tells me the cake will rise, if
it rises, and if it doesn't rise, is if the oven? is it the time? Tomorrow
never comes, why not? I am in the tomorrow of the Egyptians, it comes
only when you're dead, that's tomorrow (or sure, it's you that
never comes.

Dear myself, how are you, I am well, I hope you are well, I miss
you. Miss who? miss my eyes looking at my eyes. backwards! The
mirror lies in ways we know, what ways we don't know! Don't tell
me, it looks so real, if that is real, to look like that, or is it that
looking like that is making it real? They cover the mirrors in France
when someone dies so that the spirit will not see—itself? will not
linger in vanity? a visible spirit? what is the spirit, the part you see?
then what is the pan you don't see?

Turn myself inside out, coonish intestinal ribbon lady, spilling
purple viscous stuff all over the pavement, grass, weed. You shimmer
so delightfully, let me curl my bone inside the curlicues of your
digestion things, intestine rings, the bladder puffs and we are up up
and away in your magical balloon up the tract (development tract).
Whoops, watch out for the cancer, there's a lot of smog in your
T—Zone. It's better with the skin side inside Utd the inside outside'?
Or ts it better with the Inside Inside and (toe «kin side outside?

No choice, I'm torced to be as I see myself, if it is myself I see.
I am here, if that is a place, and you—Country Joe and the Fish—
are a bit of dark coloured plastic spinning around and arouod.