VCell who poverty and tatters and fantastic minds
sat up all night in lofts
contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to heaven under the El
and saw Mohammedan angels staggering
on tenement roofs illuminated
lokkust I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night...
MollyGoLightly "I saw the worst bands of my generation applied with magic marker to drywall"
--The Two Best Johns
youla i need a cat illuminated
staggering by a nip leaf
inside the minds of prowler beatniks
begging begging begging
light, on foot a romance of nighttime
never becoming so much of what they were
trazlo night time awakens
alone on my montain
comforted by the blinding moon
piercing crickets
and howling coyotes

becoming aware of ear-splitting silence
filled with energy given from the thousands of points of light below me

without a sond i scream to the tune of invisibility
skg brought to the summit
impaled at the peak
i howlin the vastness and
bleed ...
TalviFatin Moonlight eminating from a full orb.
Leaves rustling in the forest.
Crickets and night watchers jibber and creek.
The ground, soft and moist.

I run swiftly, leaping over rocks and logs, to reach the cliff before the river.
My feet digging into the ground, leaving paw prints.
My spine crunches, and a pelt spreads over my skin.

After a leap and a bound, I reach the cliff and the moon in full view.
Lifting my great head, and opening my jaws, I howl. I sing to the moon goddess. I thank her for creating me. I am Loup Garou.
William Carlos Williams When he was younger, and I was younger, I used to know Allen Ginsberg,
a young poet living in Paterson, New Jersey, where he, son of a well-known
poet, had been born and grew up. He was physically slight of build and
mentally much disturbed by the life which he had encountered about him
during those first years after the First World War as it was exhibited to
him in and about New York City. He was always on the point of 'going away',
where it didn't seem to matter; he disturbed me, I never thought he'd live
to grow up and write and book of poems. His ability to survive, travel, and
go on writing astonishes me. That he has gone on developing and perfecting
his art is no less astonishing to me.
Now he turns up fifteen or twenty years later with an arresting.
Literally, he has, from all the evidence, been through hell. On the way
he met a man named Carl Solomon with whom he shared among the teeth and
excrement of this life something that cannot be described but in the words
he has used to describe it. It is a howl of defeat. Not defeat at all for
he has gone through defeat as if it were an ordinary experience, a trivial
experience. Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man,
is not defeated.
It is the poet, Allen Ginsberg, who has gone, in his own body, through
the horrifying experiences described from life in these pages. The wonder
of the thing is not that he survived but that he, from the very depths, has
found a fellow whom he can love, a love he celebrates without looking aside
in these poems. Say what you will, he proves to us, in spite of the most
debasing experiences that life can offer a man, the spirit of love survives
to ennoble our lives if we have the wit and the courage and the faith-and
the art! to persist.
It is the belief in the art of the poetry that has gone hand in hand
with this man into his Golgotha, from that charnel house, similar in every
way, to that of the Jews in the past war. But this is in our own country, our
own fondest purlieus. We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.
Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.
This poet sees through and all around the horrors he partakes of in the very
intimate details of his poem. He avoids nothing but experiences it to the hilt.
He contains it. Claims it at his own-and, we believe, laughs at it and has the
time and affrontery to love a fellow of his choice and record that love in a well-made
poem. Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we going through hell.
night at the moon. 030221
.fallen rend the flesh and breathe the spirit, they are gone yet still felt... such beautiful dancing ones... hunting... hunted... hunter.... smells, feels, tastes of home... there is no home... no more...low rumble in the throat...emotions swell.... the languid momentary release... essence on the wind carrying my breath and being to tangle in the hair of those that still roam.... those that smell and feel and taste of HOME... let this moment be known... it was beautiful... it is missed... IT IS still with me... the marks still gleam ... let the wind carry this tender, fierce, quivering, wavering essence to those that roam on this world and others.... oh it burns and swells and burns... oh how it burns ... 050616
Bite emotion 050616
egger arOOO 050618
what's it to you?
who go