I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
Ah Japhy you taught me the final lesson of them all, you can’t fall off a mountain.
We are nothing. – Tomorrow we may be die. We are nothing. – You and me.
It was a rainy night. It was the myth of a rainy night.
Pretty girls make graves.
I have all the time in the world from life to life to do what is to do, to do what is done, to do the timeless doing.
I don’t want to hear all your word descriptions of words, words, words you made up all winter, man. I want to be enlightened by actions.
I suddenly began to realize that everybody in America is a natural-born thief.
So I rushed past the pretty girls, and the prettiest girls in the world live in Des Moines.
They spent all week saving pennies and went out Saturdays to spend fifty bucks in three hours.
Sweet life continues in the breeze, in the golden fields.
I’m right there, swimming the river of hardships but I know how to swim...
February dawn – frost on the path Where I paced all winter.
Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running – that’s the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. And if your cans are redhot and you can’t hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that’s all.
I believed in a good home, in sane and sound living, in good food, good times, work, faith and hope. I have always believed in these things. It was with some amazement that I realized I was one of the few people in the world who really believed in these things without going around making a dull middle class philosophy out of it. I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.
I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of ’em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures...
She talks with a broken heart – Her voice lutes brokenly like a heart lost, musically too, like in a lost grove, it’s almost too much to bear sometimes like some fantastic futuristic Jerry Southern singer in a nightclub who steps up to the mike in the spotlight in Las Vegas but doesn’t even have to sing, just talk, to make men sigh and women wonder I guess...
But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won’t be at peace unless they can latch to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end.
O hell, I’m sick of life – If I had any guts I’d drown myself in that tiresome water but that wouldn’t be getting it over at all, I can just see the big transformations and plans jellying down there to curse us up in some other wretched suffering form eternities of it – I guess that’s what the kid feels – She looks so sad down there wandering Ophelialike in bare feet among thunders.
One fast move or I’m gone,′ I realize, gone the way of the last three years of drunken hopelessness which is a physical and spiritual and metaphysical hopelessness you can’t learn in school no matter how many books on existentialism or pessimisn you read, or how many jugs of vision-producing Ayahuasca drink, or Mescaline take, or Peyote goop up with -.