All These Books Are Published In Heaven.

I Really Would Like To Stop Working Forever–never Work Again, Never Do Anything Like The Kind Of Work I’m Doing Now–and Do Nothing But Write Poetry And Have Leisure To Spend The Day Outdoors And Go To Museums And See Friends. And I’d Like To Keep Living With Someone — Maybe Even A Man — And Explore Relationships That Way. And Cultivate My Perceptions, Cultivate The Visionary Thing In Me. Just A Literary And Quiet City-hermit Existence.

The Soul Is Innocent And Immortal, It Should Never Die Ungodly In An Armed Madhouse.

The Combination Of Drugs, Homosexuality, Some Good Prose Recited On Screen. . . . In The Sweat Lodge Ceremony We Went Through, Did You Get Any Glimpse Of The Ugly Spirit, What That Was Historically Or Biographically?

Last Exit To Brooklyn Should Explode Like A Rusty Hellish Bombshell Over America And Still Be Eagerly Read In A Hundred Years.

Well, While I'm Here I'll Do The Work — And What's The Work? To Ease The Pain Of Living. Everything Else, Drunken Dumbshow.