Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg (62 page)

Allen, you know why I said I was greatest American poet and you greatest Israeli poet? Because you didn't pick up on Americana till you read
Visions of Neal
, before that you were big Burroughsian putter-downer of Americana. Remember Hal Chase and the Wolfeans and the Dark Priests? You suddenly saw Americana of Neal and all, and picked up on it, and made a killing on it, but your heart's in the mountains, O Tribe of the Mountains, the Mountains of Judea! Am I not right? You KNOW I'M RIGHT. Burroughs' own Americana is effortless, it's Brad coming on the red leather seat, so he is intrinsically Americana, like me (with teenage poems to Americana) but you only got in the act later. This is pure vision of Ginsberg's poetry history. Because you are not an American, you are a Magian man, and belong to the yearning new culture of the 21st century, which will be Magian, Orthodoxy, Cavern-feeling . . . s'why old tired Western Franciscan monks of Italy can't convince you, because you are really an Arab and above all an Aramean Russian Motherlander. Jews and Arabs are Semites, and Jews and Arabs and Russians are all Orthodox in the deepest sense. If you want further information, mail 25¢ for booklet.

[ . . . ]

Well this was a strange letter but it's all true. . . . When I come to Paris in March and get drunk and pass out you may all stomp me to death in the gutters of St. Danis and I will rise going Hm he h eee hee hee he ha ha and be Quasimodo and run down the bloody flowery streets of sacred heart and tear little girls apart from limb to limb, my dear, and then you'll have to trap me on top of old Smoky with Lucien and we'll dump molten buckets of Wilson Rye Whiskey on your beholden heads and crown you with garland gain . . . see?

Jack Kerouac [New York, New York] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]

December 28, 1957

 

Dear Allen . . . Dear Alleyboo:

I'm in Joyce's kitchen and brooding at the table suddenly sad (as she's cooking hamburg supper) “I wish Allen was here” and she said “That's right, we have enuf meat for another hamburger.”

Mad pad in Porto Rico 13th Street near Avenue A . . . where I'm hiding out, this afternoon I finally told everybody I was thru with publicity for rest of my life. I see where Rexroth says I am an “insignificant Tom Wolfe” (can he really say that bout
Sax
?) Everybody attacking us like mad, Herbert Gold, etc. etc. you and me now equally being attacked. My mother says every knock is a boost. I saw your sweet sweet cousin Joel [Gaidemak] the other night, he gave me bottle vitamin pills, your father wrote, wants me come out Paterson “talk.” O talk talk, I've talked to 1,500 people in past week. I read fine. Lucien said Yes, I read fine. Lucien sad, admires my sticking it out, dear Lucien slept on my bathroom floor on two day binge. Wish you were here. Broke up with Joyce because I wanted to try big sexy brunettes then suddenly saw evil of world and realized Joyce was my angel sister and came back to her. Xmas Eve read my prayer to drunken nightclub, everybody listen. Lamantia was here and had mad days with him walking five miles down Broadway yelling about God and ecstasy, he rushed into confession and rushed out, he flew off to Frisco, back soon, he got in big publicity interviews with me and was full of sacred eloquence. Great new poet: Howard Hart, a sheer Peter, a Catholic, Lamantia's buddy. I will write big novel about past week so you can dig the whole scene entire and to warn you about something. You'll see. . . . Excuse my last letter, paranoia lapse I guess, I am funny kind of hungry fool. I hunger for final ultimate friendship with no hassles, like with Neal early days, not for part time sneer friendships like with Gregory. You have never sneered at me but I have sneered at you. Now why? I tell you this is the beginning of something great, let's do it, put it down, put down publicity, go underground for final great maybe caves of gold. with Gary and Pete. and Laff. and Bill. And if Greg wants. I say, I say, fuck the monster. No more poetry for poetry sake, either, like word slinging, but actual me-to-you and you-to-me hey-listen hey-say saying like Neal Joan Anderson [letter] (re that, I see from Robert Stock article that Gerd Stern is now regarded as an SF poet so I figure, yes, he did steal Joan Anderson, let's get it back for sure now.) Well, actually, I won't do anything, probably never see you again, don't know what I'll do, I just dig peace. You come see me in my cave. Wish I was talking to you on transatlantic cable. You're right, you're right, you're forever forever right forever forever you're right. Goodbye. Go d be w ye. Las ombras vengadora DO WHAT YOU WANT DON'T LISTEN TO ME

Jack

Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France] to
Jack Kerouac [Orlando, Florida]

9 Rue Git Le Coeur Paris 6
Jan 4, 57 [
sic
: 1958]

 

Dear Jack:

Don't yell at me so drunk and wicked as in first aerogram from Fla., it is actually very upsetting, I don't know how to answer—teach gentler. My writing is all fucked up it's true, I write too little and am continually rusty at the black piano instead of blowing and ecstatic. Lately only time I can write well in fact is on junk (a shuddery dream)—tho I have great ideas. Latest is ten pages of political poetry (like Blake's French Revolution) (Then Necker got up his robes full of the shrieking of golden babes and his voice shook the dank walls of the cavernous Louvre crying “Guillotine!” sample Blake type). Blake fits Whitman like a glove to apply to present day epic of Fall of America. [ . . . ]

We saw Sterling Lord, he took us all three to supper with his friends and kindly sat talking to us most of time, we read him Gregory's new mad poem about SF—which he wrote per request of
Esquire
. “I looked at Alcatraz clutching my Pan's foot with vivid hoard of Dannemora O stocky Alcatraz weeping on Neptune's table and saw Death seated like a huge black stove.” He's putting on his clothes now Sun nite, going with borrowed 10 mil franc note with foggy upstairs hipster by train to be a salesman in Germany—been sleeping in sleep bags on our floor last months—try to sell drawings of ghouls or Encyclopedia Britannica to soldiers in Frankfurt just decided to leave today try his fortune and see Germany. Told me to send you enclosed girl name Joy who's waiting for you he's been balling her but tired she lives in Paris and is Indonesian simple art model mostly homey type girl he say you can have her, make up for [Alene] Lee and Paris goil.

Anyway
Esquire
wired us both promising $35 on delivery for SF poems, he wrote one and I sent “Green Auto” fixed up but still dirty and “Over Kansas”, they won't take them, but they sent me money, the $35—maybe they'll print a poem too who knows.

[ . . . ]

Yes, no more poesy for poesy sake—though I have not yet as you and Greg gone thru a purely maniac unrevised phase of writing and still have to loosen me up—as you can see the above tho imageful is rather harsh and unmellow and too directed—tho I'd like to write a monstrous and golden political or historical poem about the fall of America, even talking about [John Foster] Dulles
¹³³
—if poetry can be made of ashcans why not newspaper headlines and politics? Talk about Dulles the way Blake talks about the kings of France shuddering icy chill runs down their arms to their sweating scepters. But I write so little painfully and revise and I can't get settled down to free expression and have nightmares about ever holding my piece. It's not that I don't really agree with you about method of writing—I don't have your football energy for scrawling endlessly on pages. I am nervous and fretful and have to force myself to sit down—at least lately—other seasons it's been more natural. I guess all this publicity is bad. Well like I say I prophecy a natural obscurity will befall me anyway and take that problem out of my hands. Fuck this bullshit. And Bill is blowing in Tangiers has several hundred more pages, I sent some to
Chi Review
. Get on Don Allen's ass and find out what's up—he's been silent on it for months. Say Hello Lucien and best for New Years to everybody's families. I'm triste it's raining out today in Paris and there's an empty room down the hall. Maybe I'll go to London this month, I had sad exultant dream, parapets of England and couldn't get in, I had no pounds or something to change—same dream as when I dreamt two years ago of going to Europe. Next year I guess will be sad dreams of exultant entry to India on backs of elephants. Do write me news and analysis of NY monster scenery—particularly what Lu says of it all. I wrote him awhile back. All I think it's strangely up to us to save U.S.—who else—or what else to do next? Quixote wakes in the end last five pages.

Love,

Allen

 

Write me back about money so I'll know.

 

 

Jack Kerouac [Orlando, Florida] to
Allen Ginsberg [Paris, France]

January 8, 1958

 

Dear Allen:

My royalty check comes in February, I send you money then in one lump. Sterling tells me you and Gregory wonder about my riches . . . didn't he tell you I'm only going to get about $4500 from all that
ROAD
noise? No movie sale, of course, and little dribbles from everywhere. With that loot I gonna make down payment on a cottage for me and my mother, my later old age Emily cottage of haikus, way out on Long Island, furthern Lafcadio Northport. Just sent Burroughs manuscript (the one he sent me about queer fuzz who calls counterman by first name and another about Joseliot) to Ferlinghetti, who askt, giving Ferling Don Allen's home address so's to get all of
Naked Lunch
.—Ferling doesn't believe
Mexico City Blues
is poetry because I say so in it . . . In
Chicago Review
I will be lead poem (quivering meat conception) and lead note on what is SF poetry, so there. I told Ferling off about this. Ferling thinks like Gregory that I wrote prose (as I state myself) LINES DONT MAKE A POET, . . . Poetry is poetry, the longer the line the better when it comes finally to two page Cassady sentences hooray. Big attack against me in
Nation
saying I a fool boy poet and Richard Wilbur a heroic man poet. Do guys like [Richard] Wilbur and [Herb] Gold stay up nights hoping we'll hurl critical attacks at them? Geez. Everybody down on me for reading my heart out in Village Vanguard careless of my appearance, my “poise,” etc., read like Zen lunatic saint, like you said to do, would have anyway but you gave me confidence ahead of time. Steve Allen will make album with me, just wrote me. Your cousin Joel was there, sweet, your father wrote me from Paterson. I had wildest time of all time. Met great new cat Zev Putterman, from Israel, play director. Saw Leo Garen again (your brother, he's like) . . . Got heeazi on your Paris kick but straight with Allen Eager. Had three girls in my bed one night. Me and Philip L. [Lamantia] orgied one together. Philip really wailing these days, got in the papers with me,
NY Post
, made big Marian nervous speeches to Mike Wallace tape. Tryna think of all thousands of details you'd like. I should write novel about it all. I read last part of
Howl
in the club, it's mentioned in newspaper. I also read “Arnold” the few lines I could remember and got big yoks, of course I repeated that it was Corso's, twice . . . I even read one of Steve Allen's sensitive lil poems . . . I even read Dave Tercerero's confession . . . (Esperanza's old husband) . . . The Negro dishwasher said “Nothin I like bettern go to bed with two quarts of whiskey and hear you read to me” and Lee Konitz said I blew music, he could hear music. At Brata Gallery I read your latest Mother elegy poem [
Kaddish
] and Gregory's “Concourse Didils” and use use use use to big audience of pale faced sober shits, at Philip's and Howard Hart's request, but later, after I left, a wino stumbled in from the Bowery Street and got everybody drunk and the reading was big success I hear (at same moment I was reading in club to big opening night audience and being photoed as I read and sneered at and thunderous applause and big swigs and long talks with hepcats in back). One young hepcat from Denver said everybody was going to start imitating Neal. In fact you shoulda been there, for all the handsome teenage boys came up to talk to me (hundreds). Trying to sleep days, my floor was covered with sleepers: musicians, editors of small mags, girls, junkies, it was a spectacle. Robert Frank is going to be our boy: Robert Frank is greatest photographer on scene, has already shot an experimental movie on Cape Cod, with free nutty actors who only want wine, and is going to make a movie with me in May in New York wherein I will get my experience for later in the year when you come back we will begin work on our first great movie. He says it only costs about $200 to make a movie but we'll have sound too; he will get money from big Meyer Schapiro foundations. I already have an idea for a great movie about Lafcadio and Peter as brothers, Frank's wife their sister, and you the father, or and you the father with your evil brother Uncle Willie Burroughs (incest). This Frank is no bullshit a future Rossellini but refuses to write own movies, wants me to. I told him of our old dreams and plans. With Bill back in New York we could really in 1958 do Burroughs on Earth. Gregory knows Alfred Leslie, don't he, and Miles Forst, they were in movie, Leslie technician, wildhaired subterraneans running off their holy movies against pockmarked walls of Bowery lofts is the scene. Then all rush down to Fivespot . . . poor, crazy, future moguls of Hollywood like D.W. Griffiths actually. I have discovered cat to play Neal in
On the Road
, Kelly Reynolds, Irish nervous Neal with blue eyes and imperious Neal look in profile and nervous Neal of 1948 . . . (he's an actor, MCA) . . . Got big letter from Gary Snyder shuffling around the world on a ship, India to Italy, etc.* (*and
back
to India). Got big letter from [Elbert] Lenrow who told me [Archibald] MacLeish at Harvard praising my book. Rexroth however is down on me, called me an “insignificant Tom Wolfe” on KPFA, because, why? I'll write and explain to him I disassociated myself from his sphere of influence because I DON'T WANT NOTHIN TO DO WITH POLITICS especially leftist west coast future blood in the street malevolence (there will be a revolution in California, it is seething with incredible hatred, led by bloodthirsty poets like “Jean McLean” and Rexroth keeps yapping about the international brigade etc.). I don't like it, I believe in Buddha kindness and nothing else, I believe in Heaven, in Angels, I eschew all Marxism and allied horseshit and psychoanalysis, an offshoot therefrom . . . beware of California.