Allen Ginsberg

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.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca what were you doing down by the watermelons?

America, why are your libraries full of tears?

Cezanne's Ports

In the foreground we see time and life
swept in a race
toward the left hand side of the picture
where shore meets shore.


But that meeting place
isn't represented;
it doesn't occur on the canvas.


For the other side of the bay
is Heaven and Eternity,
with a bleak white haze over its mountains.


And the immense water of L'Estaque is a go-between
for minute rowboats.

Go to a big book store that has lots of poetry books. Look them over and see if you find any affinity groups that you like among the magazines and publishing groups, people you dig or who might dig your mind. Send them your stuff.

Scientist alone is true poet he gives us the moon / he promises the stars he'll make us a new universe if it comes to that.

O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten