howl 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 000531 ... 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... 000531 ... MollyGoLightly "I saw the worst bands of my generation applied with magic marker to drywall" --The Two Best Johns 000531 ... 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 000601 ... 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 010406 ... skg brought to the summit impaled at the peak i howlin the vastness and bleed ... 010413 ... 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. 010724 ... 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. 020926 ... 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 blather from