Corso to AG PO & HH - 1960
Feb 20, 1960
To Allen Ginsberg, Peter and Lafcadio Orlovsky, Herbert Huncke
Dear Allen and Peter and Lafcadio andHuncke,
How are all of thee? I would like to come home, so if I think of coming home, will I? Now does Peter want me to come home? Or will he think a future again of my cats and bitter practice? Or will I just sit in my room no longer and say not a word but look back on somebody else’s childhood for a change? Whatever, I think to come home.
My mood is ironic in that I am without complaint now, now that I have the freshness of a vision, and that is, Allen did see what Bill did see, and I have yet to see, but had to in Hydra scream, “Allen no see,” because then I thought sure to get some transfigured situation. Yes. But if I do come home please no tell anyone as I want it secret for passport reasons and when I leave boat I leave unknown but though to thee; yet I need the fare, the money and so wrote to de Kooning who has been so nice to me and who calleth me his son, so I pray I no take advantage of all, which I never do, and guilt hath never been with me, but it cometh only because I think. I am writing poems about love, a subject so alien to me, yet I am writing about it, and am feeling it all. Peter must know me to divide what he thinketh with what he feels, as I say in love poem, the absence of she be ever in my presence more—so am I in the presence of Peter? And Lafcadio must know that when we leave time consciousness, we will go into space consciousness, and lo space is not spacious, o there is room for only one in space, because in time–life we have much time to spare, but in space–life we only got one space to spare, and that’s the spot we are standing in, so room for only one, and who fits in that single spot, be God, and so Lafcadio sinister scheme. And Huncke, I would love to get to know Huncke, and see Irving again, and now I am so older nicer too. Well, do I fit to return? Do I sound as though I am ready for the look of thee? And again like in love poem, I sayeth; unlike the noble wrist that waits the dun hawk, I can only hold what has flown. All of you have flown from me, will you not land again? My wrist is held out—I wait.
Last night I dreamed Khrushchev had bongo drums, of all things! Bongo drums, something I never cared for, but he had them and sat by me like a father, so what means that? If you guys don’t get me home I’ll go and join the Reds and say bad things about you all! This is a threat! Allen’s magic poem is a guided progress of vision, one with intense feeling of the Adar June Plot of Zion!
O echoes of axes! What news? Am I yet gossiped about? O so many things said of me, that I feign to believe them anymore, for surely anything said of me is true but NOT REALLY; so what have you heard? Tell me all you emotional emotional knights of glimpse and deterioration! You common man! You last hundred years! You institutional New Year’s Eve party poems! You hairy fishes! Peter is a fucking moron who knows nothing of the astrological rejection of neo–Platonism! And Lafcadio is a pimply assed Tartar of cosmic disaster! And Allen is the goat–shit cloak of a monk! And I? I can only say like Rilke: “What will you do, God, if I die. I am your jug (what if I am smashed) I am your drink (what if I go bad?) I am your cloak and your trade, if you lose me you lose your purpose.” If I come home everything will be great and strong again. The rooms will be illumined and the icebox will be consumed, the beds will be warm and the walls will listen once again; and in the streets a people will gather and look up at the window and looking up will give them chance to gaze at heaven—so!
Or should I go to Warsaw first? But I want home, want it very much; so write to me and say what you all think. My heart goes out to my very dear friends.