America, why are your libraries full of tears?
No point writing when the spirit doth not lead.
My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.
I’m with you in Rockland, where we are great writers on this same dreadful typewriter.
The message is: Widen the area of consciousness.
Without even intending it, there is that little shiver of a moment in time preserved in the crystal cabinet of the mind. A little shiver of internal space. That’s what I was looking for.
Nobody wants to hear about your feelings, darling, tell me what you see!
I am bored with these frantic cravings, tired of them and therefore myself, and contemptuous though tolerant of all my vast powers of self-pity and self-expressive misery.
I hadn’t thought about what any army trains for. It merely maintains itself here for no exterior purpose.
Why are you afraid to submit to the annihilation of such stupid meaningless unreal knowledge. This is the abyss. Everything is green, love, without the logical fantastic equivocations that we invent so that we won’t actually have to face each other.
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.
America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.
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.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.
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.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman?
America will be refused eternity by her own mad son the bomb!
Which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns? This is my rocket my personal rocket I send up my message Beyond Someone to hear me there.
You are a pot of gold, don’t think I don’ realize it.
The poetry is like a rhythmic articulation of feeling.” – Allen Ginsberg.
If you must suffer, suffer nobly. Love, laugh through your tears, or cry, create and perhaps, perish.