Our Heads Are Round So Thought Can

Breathe When You Breathe. Walk Where You Walk. Talk When You Talk. Cry When You Cry. Die When You Die. Let Go When You Let Go.

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 The Night.

America, How Can I Write A Holy Litany In Your Silly Mood?

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.

I Saw The Best Minds Of My Generation Who Threw Their Watches Off The Roof To Cast Their Ballot For Eternity Outside Of Time, & Alarm Clocks Fell On Their Heads Every Day For The Next Decade.