America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
Who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish.
Don't you see that I cannot be composed, I cannot reconcile myself, because there is no other reality but loneliness for me and before I am dragged back into isolation I will clasp and grasp and claw in fright even at you without consciousness—even I—and I am afraid that I cannot survive if I have to go on into myself.
I want to see you. I feel more and more at with you now actually than ever before, I feel you more, actually more clarity, more confidence, more trust.
I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out to the garden crying.
Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood.
Democracy! Bah! When I hear that word I reach for my feather boa!
The most important thing about dreams is the existence in them of magical emotions, to which waking consciousness is not ordinarily sentient. Awe of vast constructions; familiar eternal halls of buildings; sexual intensity in rapport; deathly music; grief awakenings, perfected lodgings.
Who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, ...
The whole blear world of smoke and twisted steel around my head in a railroad car, and my mind wandering past the rust into futurity: I saw the sun go down in a carnal and primeval world, leaving darkness to cover my railroad train because the other side of the world was waiting for dawn.
Well, while I'm here I'll do the work — and what's the work? To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
I saw the best minds of my generation who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade.
Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.
The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That's what poetry does.
May no Evil Eye peek thru window, keyhole or gunsight at his white haired face!
I don't think there is any truth. There are only points of view.
I really believe, or want to believe, really I am nuts, otherwise I'll never be sane.
Just because I like to suck cock doesn't make me any less American than Jesse Helms.
To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. Become a saint of your own province and your own consciousness.
There's a guy, Anatole Broyard, of the N. Y. Times Book Review, who's still chasing Kerouac's corpse with a stiletto.
Fortunately art is a community effort - a small but select community living in a spiritualized world endeavoring to interpret the wars and the solitudes of the flesh.
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.
It's too bad our problems are not solved more easily. But that is an old stupid complaint. Still the others are stupid. It is as if to save ourselves we had to save them too. That is why genius must suffer- it has to bear the burdens of the whole world. Our happiness and reality depends on the happiness and reality of others.
Banks burn, boys die bullet-eyed, mothers scream realization the vast tonnage of napalm.