Here I am—Old Betty Boop whoopsing behind the skull-microphone
wondering what Idiot soap opera horror show we broadcast by Mistake
—full of communists and frankenstein cops and
mature capitalists running the State Department and the Daily News Editorial
hypnotizing millions of legional-eyed detectives to commit mass murder on the Invisible
What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost
A. Ginsberg – Kaddish
It’s time get this blog back on track, a little more time and a little more summer outside. That helps. The quote above caught my eye lately. This isn’t a surprise but let’s make it clear. Allen Ginsberg has a lot more to offer than just Howl.