That’s all that matters, getting drunk, that way I don’t need to endure the looks and manners, behavior of the many; the brows, eyebrows the crap. A little with beer, some poetry, and looking at the pictures on the wall: I can jump into those pictures to no end, become part of them; die inside of them, zone off and when I wake up, I got a hundred cigarette putts in my ash, damn ashtray: ‘…who they from,’ I say: ‘…me, me’, my mind says, my second-self repeats: the oil paintings the old man painted Viaje a Jordania, he lived in Alaska, got hurt, he’s up there drunk now, Harvey the barkeep tells me each night that’s what he’s doing, painting away, learned it in Alaska: snow and ocean scenes, great art it is, got hurt by a bear, mauled, as if he was a sea-lion for the bear to eat, and when the bear noticed it was human meat, he stopped, hesitated, and let him be; I want to see him, not sure why, he’s a survivor; he’d say to me: “Twenty-year old punk, f*ck off, let me get drunk, get your ass out of my sight!” that’s what he’d say; he lives up in a hole above the bar; get drunk old fool, that’s what I say, just like me, in your dreary muted room

I do it each night. I don’t hear clocks, I’m too drunk to, can’t see stars, I never look up that high: waking up from drunkenness is a real decline, You see the shadows groan, you roll here and there (I sleep on a sofa in a dojo; up the block, Castro area) and swear your heart is going to pound out of its socket–flip flop, on the floor, and probably roll down those damn steps off onto Collins Street. The wind inside your head: shifts, it’s drunk too, the way I’m getting now. Never break to rest; you’ll hear the heart pound in your chest! That’s the time you write poetry, or pass out. That’s what’s fun about getting drunk, you don’t care, don’t know, and solitude.

Yes, solitude. Is it bad or good he says: that is what I always read: he says, she says. Ghosts think it’s good, the priests think it’s good, and they do enough of it both of them. The dead have no choice so I suppose its part of the cycle of life: so it’s good. It is kind of like murdering the spirit: solitude, or wakening it up: whatever you need. Solitude mixed with drunkenness is like a voyage, drowned in the fumes of fermenting decay: enthusiastic decay. A true drunk will not get sick: it’s pleasure or passing out, a lot of work, a lot of time, and mirrors in your mind, webbed poetic mind; drunkenness will stimulate the rich imagination, molest it, make it pure, make the dream world breath-in more sensations; create a crude atmosphere.

Let me live and die in the deep odors of my drink: into it, I shall plunge the whole of my life; like a thirsty hog drinking from a mud puddle; floats the mind, quivering into an impermeable endlessly jug of sparkling beer: drink with foam and poetry.

It is not given to everyone to take a shower in the pleasures of spirits. Cradled by living demon. Oh no, confronts the demon, restrict him before he sobers up: orgy time, find him a prostitute, one that has a feeble soul, good, he says, no–bring him to me, happy are the people that get fed in this world, with poisoned drunkenness.

At last! I say it is time to go home, UN-descript is my behavior. First of all, I get off my stool, turn about, look, look any old place, who gives a shit, you just look: get my balance, and twist about again, increase my focus to the door instead of the damn wall. Horrible life I say. But I will recapitulate this day, tomorrow. The TV on the wall goes off. A few handshakes, some one says, “Three minutes, to get out, it’s the law!” The asshole wants to go home with his buddy and get screwed. Stupidest think I’ve ever heard, “Three minutes, its the Law.” I wonder how the old coot is doing upstairs, committing suicide maybe. I am not the lowest of men; grant me that grace, whoever reads this. [May 8, 1968, San Francisco: from notes]

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