Peter Orlovsky reading a poem
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7E9dNkxECxI

***

Transcript

0:00
so write it down alum said 1961 bus ride
0:05
from Damascus to East Jerusalem for one
0:07
month visit what lucky joy thinking back
0:10
on it got rooftop named an Arab hotel
0:13
across from Damascus Gate fortress
0:16
entrance into old stone walled city our
0:19
hotel desk keeper started to get more
0:21
excited in mid conversation about my
0:24
question to him why are you so angry to
0:27
the Jews it not good for you or for them
0:29
anger only gets in their way of solving
0:32
problems between Arabs and Jews then he
0:35
said Arabs will always hate the Jews
0:37
because when he was a boy his father
0:39
owned a coffee shop in Palestine and one
0:42
day Jews or Israelis came with
0:44
submachine guns and told him come out
0:47
from inside and start walking down the
0:49
road and said they had became dry and
0:51
front coffee shop if they didn't walk
0:53
right now they stole this coffee shop
0:56
and gave him anger in return for his
0:58
coffee shop how many young tender
1:01
travellers has he told this jury - how
1:05
many fellow Muhammad and alibies did he
1:07
have to cream his anger - met young
1:10
palestine poet and translated hotel
1:12
keepers anger and took me to his family
1:16
refugee tin roof city rich anger that
1:19
sprouts years of memory anger poor anger
1:22
spelling bugs of tongue pain his coffee
1:25
shop now only a tiny emotional
1:28
photograph behind his front skull bone

***

On Friday, August 11, 2023 at 2:20:28 PM UTC-4, Faraway Star wrote:
> Peter Orlovsky reading a poem
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7E9dNkxECxI
>
> ***
>
> Transcript
>
> 0:00
> so write it down alum said 1961 bus ride
> 0:05
> from Damascus to East Jerusalem for one
> 0:07
> month visit what lucky joy thinking back
> 0:10
> on it got rooftop named an Arab hotel
> 0:13
> across from Damascus Gate fortress
> 0:16
> entrance into old stone walled city our
> 0:19
> hotel desk keeper started to get more
> 0:21
> excited in mid conversation about my
> 0:24
> question to him why are you so angry to
> 0:27
> the Jews it not good for you or for them
> 0:29
> anger only gets in their way of solving
> 0:32
> problems between Arabs and Jews then he
> 0:35
> said Arabs will always hate the Jews
> 0:37
> because when he was a boy his father
> 0:39
> owned a coffee shop in Palestine and one
> 0:42
> day Jews or Israelis came with
> 0:44
> submachine guns and told him come out
> 0:47
> from inside and start walking down the
> 0:49
> road and said they had became dry and
> 0:51
> front coffee shop if they didn't walk
> 0:53
> right now they stole this coffee shop
> 0:56
> and gave him anger in return for his
> 0:58
> coffee shop how many young tender
> 1:01
> travellers has he told this jury - how
> 1:05
> many fellow Muhammad and alibies did he
> 1:07
> have to cream his anger - met young
> 1:10
> palestine poet and translated hotel
> 1:12
> keepers anger and took me to his family
> 1:16
> refugee tin roof city rich anger that
> 1:19
> sprouts years of memory anger poor anger
> 1:22
> spelling bugs of tongue pain his coffee
> 1:25
> shop now only a tiny emotional
> 1:28
> photograph behind his front skull bone
>
> ***

Good find.

Will Dockery wrote:

> On Friday, August 11, 2023 at 2:20:28 PM UTC-4, Faraway Star wrote:
>> Peter Orlovsky reading a poem
>> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7E9dNkxECxI
>>
>> ***
>>
>> Transcript
>>
>> 0:00
>> so write it down alum said 1961 bus ride
>> 0:05
>> from Damascus to East Jerusalem for one
>> 0:07
>> month visit what lucky joy thinking back
>> 0:10
>> on it got rooftop named an Arab hotel
>> 0:13
>> across from Damascus Gate fortress
>> 0:16
>> entrance into old stone walled city our
>> 0:19
>> hotel desk keeper started to get more
>> 0:21
>> excited in mid conversation about my
>> 0:24
>> question to him why are you so angry to
>> 0:27
>> the Jews it not good for you or for them
>> 0:29
>> anger only gets in their way of solving
>> 0:32
>> problems between Arabs and Jews then he
>> 0:35
>> said Arabs will always hate the Jews
>> 0:37
>> because when he was a boy his father
>> 0:39
>> owned a coffee shop in Palestine and one
>> 0:42
>> day Jews or Israelis came with
>> 0:44
>> submachine guns and told him come out
>> 0:47
>> from inside and start walking down the
>> 0:49
>> road and said they had became dry and
>> 0:51
>> front coffee shop if they didn't walk
>> 0:53
>> right now they stole this coffee shop
>> 0:56
>> and gave him anger in return for his
>> 0:58
>> coffee shop how many young tender
>> 1:01
>> travellers has he told this jury - how
>> 1:05
>> many fellow Muhammad and alibies did he
>> 1:07
>> have to cream his anger - met young
>> 1:10
>> palestine poet and translated hotel
>> 1:12
>> keepers anger and took me to his family
>> 1:16
>> refugee tin roof city rich anger that
>> 1:19
>> sprouts years of memory anger poor anger
>> 1:22
>> spelling bugs of tongue pain his coffee
>> 1:25
>> shop now only a tiny emotional
>> 1:28
>> photograph behind his front skull bone
>>
>> ***

> Good find.

Peter Orlovsky was one of the coolest of the Dharma Bums in my opinion...

Will Dockery wrote:
> poet_of_franklinton wrote:
>
> > Does anyone know of the current whereabouts and condition of Allen
> > Ginsberg's longtime companion, Peter Orlovsky? I have heard that the
> > San Francisco Public Library is trying to organize a tribute honoring
> > the 50-year anniversary of the Six Gallery reading when Ginsberg first
> > read "Howl." (The date is 7 October--the day after my daughter Susan
> > turns 8, BTW!) The organizers are trying to find people who were
> > there. Snyder and McClure are the only readers still living, but
> > Orlovsky's presence would mean that Ginsberg would be there in spirit.
> > Any idea where to locate Peter Orlovsky, or what his health (mental
> > and/or physical) might be?
> I haven't thought much about Orlovsky in a long time, the last time
> probably at Ginsberg's death when I read a piece by him, so I Googled
> [type in "Peter Orlovsky" for a ton of links] and didn't see any
> mention of him having passed, so apparently not. Gotta be pretty old,
> though, of course.
> A picture from the glory days of the first Beat generation:
> http://boppin.com/images/peter.jpg
> And a couple of poems, in his "unique" spelling, that are pretty good,
> I think:
> FRIST POEM
> A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
> Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
> the air.
> I look for my shues under my bed.
> A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
> I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
> I grow a beard in one day.
> I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
> I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
> talk to me.
> I empty the garbage on the tabol.
> I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
> I use the typewritter as my pillow.
> A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
> Bums give all their money to me.
> All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
> My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
> bacon.
> My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
> blue beards.
> My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
> I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
> bullet.
> I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
> My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
> of life
> All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
> I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
> I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
> I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
> fresh butts.
> My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
> I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
> look up at my window and see nobody.
> So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
> then I do?"
> Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
> My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
> my gay jubilation.
> Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
> SECOND POEM
> Morning again, nothing has to be done,
> maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
> At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
> the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
> But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
> to clean the smelly mouth.
> A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
> elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
> hallucinations aney more.
> Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
> knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
> No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
> Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
> maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
> maybe take a bath on the bed?
> Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
> room-land?
> For this drop of time upon my eyes
> like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
> makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
> I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
> disappear forever.
> The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
> My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
> There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
> the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
> Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
> innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
> tabol.
> Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
> or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
> or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
> But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
> two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
> How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
> that.
> No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
> its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
> As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
> a lunchenette.
> My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
> around the globe.
> Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
> I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
> makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
> flowers.
> Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
> --
> Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
> <http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
> "Autograph Of Zorro" {digital video}:
> <http://www.lulu.com/items/86000/86128/1/preview/45-Zorro.mpg>
> The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
> project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>

The photo I am basing my portrait of Peter Orlovsky on:

https://www.ebay.com/itm/374305699432

General-Zod wrote:

> Will Dockery wrote:
>> poet_of_franklinton wrote:
>>
>> > Does anyone know of the current whereabouts and condition of Allen
>> > Ginsberg's longtime companion, Peter Orlovsky? I have heard that the
>> > San Francisco Public Library is trying to organize a tribute honoring
>> > the 50-year anniversary of the Six Gallery reading when Ginsberg first
>> > read "Howl." (The date is 7 October--the day after my daughter Susan
>> > turns 8, BTW!) The organizers are trying to find people who were
>> > there. Snyder and McClure are the only readers still living, but
>> > Orlovsky's presence would mean that Ginsberg would be there in spirit.
>> > Any idea where to locate Peter Orlovsky, or what his health (mental
>> > and/or physical) might be?
>> I haven't thought much about Orlovsky in a long time, the last time
>> probably at Ginsberg's death when I read a piece by him, so I Googled
>> [type in "Peter Orlovsky" for a ton of links] and didn't see any
>> mention of him having passed, so apparently not. Gotta be pretty old,
>> though, of course.
>> A picture from the glory days of the first Beat generation:
>> http://boppin.com/images/peter.jpg
>> And a couple of poems, in his "unique" spelling, that are pretty good,
>> I think:
>> FRIST POEM
>> A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
>> Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
>> the air.
>> I look for my shues under my bed.
>> A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
>> I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
>> I grow a beard in one day.
>> I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
>> I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
>> talk to me.
>> I empty the garbage on the tabol.
>> I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
>> I use the typewritter as my pillow.
>> A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
>> Bums give all their money to me.
>> All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
>> My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
>> bacon.
>> My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
>> blue beards.
>> My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
>> I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
>> bullet.
>> I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
>> My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
>> of life
>> All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
>> I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
>> I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
>> I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
>> fresh butts.
>> My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
>> I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
>> look up at my window and see nobody.
>> So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
>> then I do?"
>> Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
>> My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
>> my gay jubilation.
>> Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
>> SECOND POEM
>> Morning again, nothing has to be done,
>> maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
>> At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
>> the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
>> But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
>> to clean the smelly mouth.
>> A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
>> elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
>> hallucinations aney more.
>> Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
>> knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
>> No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
>> Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
>> maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
>> maybe take a bath on the bed?
>> Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
>> room-land?
>> For this drop of time upon my eyes
>> like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
>> makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
>> I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
>> disappear forever.
>> The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
>> My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
>> There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
>> the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
>> Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
>> innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
>> tabol.
>> Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
>> or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
>> or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
>> But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
>> two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
>> How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
>> that.
>> No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
>> its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
>> As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
>> a lunchenette.
>> My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
>> around the globe.
>> Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
>> I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
>> makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
>> flowers.
>> Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
>> --
>> Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
>> <http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
>> "Autograph Of Zorro" {digital video}:
>> <http://www.lulu.com/items/86000/86128/1/preview/45-Zorro.mpg>
>> The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
>> project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>

> The photo I am basing my portrait of Peter Orlovsky on:

> https://www.ebay.com/itm/374305699432

Looking forward to seeing it.

:)

W.Dockery wrote:

> General-Zod wrote:

>> Will Dockery wrote:
>>> poet_of_franklinton wrote:
>>>
>>> > Does anyone know of the current whereabouts and condition of Allen
>>> > Ginsberg's longtime companion, Peter Orlovsky? I have heard that the
>>> > San Francisco Public Library is trying to organize a tribute honoring
>>> > the 50-year anniversary of the Six Gallery reading when Ginsberg first
>>> > read "Howl." (The date is 7 October--the day after my daughter Susan
>>> > turns 8, BTW!) The organizers are trying to find people who were
>>> > there. Snyder and McClure are the only readers still living, but
>>> > Orlovsky's presence would mean that Ginsberg would be there in spirit.
>>> > Any idea where to locate Peter Orlovsky, or what his health (mental
>>> > and/or physical) might be?
>>> I haven't thought much about Orlovsky in a long time, the last time
>>> probably at Ginsberg's death when I read a piece by him, so I Googled
>>> [type in "Peter Orlovsky" for a ton of links] and didn't see any
>>> mention of him having passed, so apparently not. Gotta be pretty old,
>>> though, of course.
>>> A picture from the glory days of the first Beat generation:
>>> http://boppin.com/images/peter.jpg
>>> And a couple of poems, in his "unique" spelling, that are pretty good,
>>> I think:
>>> FRIST POEM
>>> A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
>>> Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
>>> the air.
>>> I look for my shues under my bed.
>>> A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
>>> I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
>>> I grow a beard in one day.
>>> I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
>>> I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
>>> talk to me.
>>> I empty the garbage on the tabol.
>>> I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
>>> I use the typewritter as my pillow.
>>> A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
>>> Bums give all their money to me.
>>> All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
>>> My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
>>> bacon.
>>> My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
>>> blue beards.
>>> My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
>>> I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
>>> bullet.
>>> I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
>>> My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
>>> of life
>>> All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
>>> I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
>>> I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
>>> I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
>>> fresh butts.
>>> My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
>>> I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
>>> look up at my window and see nobody.
>>> So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
>>> then I do?"
>>> Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
>>> My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
>>> my gay jubilation.
>>> Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
>>> SECOND POEM
>>> Morning again, nothing has to be done,
>>> maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
>>> At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
>>> the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
>>> But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
>>> to clean the smelly mouth.
>>> A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
>>> elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
>>> hallucinations aney more.
>>> Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
>>> knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
>>> No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
>>> Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
>>> maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
>>> maybe take a bath on the bed?
>>> Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
>>> room-land?
>>> For this drop of time upon my eyes
>>> like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
>>> makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
>>> I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
>>> disappear forever.
>>> The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
>>> My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
>>> There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
>>> the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
>>> Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
>>> innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
>>> tabol.
>>> Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
>>> or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
>>> or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
>>> But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
>>> two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
>>> How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
>>> that.
>>> No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
>>> its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
>>> As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
>>> a lunchenette.
>>> My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
>>> around the globe.
>>> Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
>>> I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
>>> makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
>>> flowers.
>>> Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
>>> --
>>> Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
>>> <http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
>>> "Autograph Of Zorro" {digital video}:
>>> <http://www.lulu.com/items/86000/86128/1/preview/45-Zorro.mpg>
>>> The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
>>> project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>

>> The photo I am basing my portrait of Peter Orlovsky on:

>> https://www.ebay.com/itm/374305699432

> Looking forward to seeing it.

> :)

Almost read

General-Zod wrote:

>>> Will Dockery wrote:
>>>> poet_of_franklinton wrote:
>>>>
>>>> > Does anyone know of the current whereabouts and condition of Allen
>>>> > Ginsberg's longtime companion, Peter Orlovsky? I have heard that the
>>>> > San Francisco Public Library is trying to organize a tribute honoring
>>>> > the 50-year anniversary of the Six Gallery reading when Ginsberg first
>>>> > read "Howl." (The date is 7 October--the day after my daughter Susan
>>>> > turns 8, BTW!) The organizers are trying to find people who were
>>>> > there. Snyder and McClure are the only readers still living, but
>>>> > Orlovsky's presence would mean that Ginsberg would be there in spirit.
>>>> > Any idea where to locate Peter Orlovsky, or what his health (mental
>>>> > and/or physical) might be?
>>>> I haven't thought much about Orlovsky in a long time, the last time
>>>> probably at Ginsberg's death when I read a piece by him, so I Googled
>>>> [type in "Peter Orlovsky" for a ton of links] and didn't see any
>>>> mention of him having passed, so apparently not. Gotta be pretty old,
>>>> though, of course.
>>>> A picture from the glory days of the first Beat generation:
>>>> http://boppin.com/images/peter.jpg
>>>> And a couple of poems, in his "unique" spelling, that are pretty good,
>>>> I think:
>>>> FRIST POEM
>>>> A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
>>>> Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
>>>> the air.
>>>> I look for my shues under my bed.
>>>> A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
>>>> I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
>>>> I grow a beard in one day.
>>>> I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
>>>> I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
>>>> talk to me.
>>>> I empty the garbage on the tabol.
>>>> I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
>>>> I use the typewritter as my pillow.
>>>> A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
>>>> Bums give all their money to me.
>>>> All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
>>>> My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
>>>> bacon.
>>>> My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
>>>> blue beards.
>>>> My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
>>>> I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
>>>> bullet.
>>>> I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
>>>> My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
>>>> of life
>>>> All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
>>>> I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
>>>> I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
>>>> I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
>>>> fresh butts.
>>>> My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
>>>> I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
>>>> look up at my window and see nobody.
>>>> So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
>>>> then I do?"
>>>> Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
>>>> My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
>>>> my gay jubilation.
>>>> Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
>>>> SECOND POEM
>>>> Morning again, nothing has to be done,
>>>> maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
>>>> At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
>>>> the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
>>>> But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
>>>> to clean the smelly mouth.
>>>> A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
>>>> elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
>>>> hallucinations aney more.
>>>> Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
>>>> knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
>>>> No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
>>>> Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
>>>> maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
>>>> maybe take a bath on the bed?
>>>> Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
>>>> room-land?
>>>> For this drop of time upon my eyes
>>>> like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
>>>> makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
>>>> I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
>>>> disappear forever.
>>>> The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
>>>> My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
>>>> There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
>>>> the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
>>>> Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
>>>> innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
>>>> tabol.
>>>> Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
>>>> or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
>>>> or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
>>>> But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
>>>> two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
>>>> How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
>>>> that.
>>>> No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
>>>> its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
>>>> As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
>>>> a lunchenette.
>>>> My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
>>>> around the globe.
>>>> Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
>>>> I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
>>>> makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
>>>> flowers.
>>>> Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
>>>> --
>>>> Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
>>>> <http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
>>>> "Autograph Of Zorro" {digital video}:
>>>> <http://www.lulu.com/items/86000/86128/1/preview/45-Zorro.mpg>
>>>> The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
>>>> project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>

>>> The photo I am basing my portrait of Peter Orlovsky on:

>
> https://www.ebay.com/itm/374305699432

Good morning, interesting.

Will Dockery wrote:

> General-Zod wrote:

>>>> Will Dockery wrote:
>>>>> poet_of_franklinton wrote:
>
>>>>> > Does anyone know of the current whereabouts and condition of Allen
>>>>> > Ginsberg's longtime companion, Peter Orlovsky? I have heard that the
>>>>> > San Francisco Public Library is trying to organize a tribute honoring
>>>>> > the 50-year anniversary of the Six Gallery reading when Ginsberg first
>>>>> > read "Howl." (The date is 7 October--the day after my daughter Susan
>>>>> > turns 8, BTW!) The organizers are trying to find people who were
>>>>> > there. Snyder and McClure are the only readers still living, but
>>>>> > Orlovsky's presence would mean that Ginsberg would be there in spirit.
>>>>> > Any idea where to locate Peter Orlovsky, or what his health (mental
>>>>> > and/or physical) might be?
>>>>> I haven't thought much about Orlovsky in a long time, the last time
>>>>> probably at Ginsberg's death when I read a piece by him, so I Googled
>>>>> [type in "Peter Orlovsky" for a ton of links] and didn't see any
>>>>> mention of him having passed, so apparently not. Gotta be pretty old,
>>>>> though, of course.
>>>>> A picture from the glory days of the first Beat generation:
>>>>> http://boppin.com/images/peter.jpg
>>>>> And a couple of poems, in his "unique" spelling, that are pretty good,
>>>>> I think:
>>>>> FRIST POEM
>>>>> A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
>>>>> Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
>>>>> the air.
>>>>> I look for my shues under my bed.
>>>>> A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
>>>>> I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
>>>>> I grow a beard in one day.
>>>>> I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
>>>>> I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
>>>>> talk to me.
>>>>> I empty the garbage on the tabol.
>>>>> I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
>>>>> I use the typewritter as my pillow.
>>>>> A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
>>>>> Bums give all their money to me.
>>>>> All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
>>>>> My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
>>>>> bacon.
>>>>> My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
>>>>> blue beards.
>>>>> My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
>>>>> I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
>>>>> bullet.
>>>>> I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
>>>>> My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
>>>>> of life
>>>>> All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
>>>>> I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
>>>>> I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
>>>>> I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
>>>>> fresh butts.
>>>>> My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
>>>>> I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
>>>>> look up at my window and see nobody.
>>>>> So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
>>>>> then I do?"
>>>>> Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
>>>>> My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
>>>>> my gay jubilation.
>>>>> Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
>>>>> SECOND POEM
>>>>> Morning again, nothing has to be done,
>>>>> maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
>>>>> At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
>>>>> the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
>>>>> But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
>>>>> to clean the smelly mouth.
>>>>> A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
>>>>> elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
>>>>> hallucinations aney more.
>>>>> Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
>>>>> knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
>>>>> No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
>>>>> Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
>>>>> maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
>>>>> maybe take a bath on the bed?
>>>>> Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
>>>>> room-land?
>>>>> For this drop of time upon my eyes
>>>>> like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
>>>>> makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
>>>>> I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
>>>>> disappear forever.
>>>>> The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
>>>>> My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
>>>>> There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
>>>>> the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
>>>>> Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
>>>>> innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
>>>>> tabol.
>>>>> Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
>>>>> or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
>>>>> or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
>>>>> But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
>>>>> two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
>>>>> How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
>>>>> that.
>>>>> No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
>>>>> its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
>>>>> As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
>>>>> a lunchenette.
>>>>> My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
>>>>> around the globe.
>>>>> Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
>>>>> I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
>>>>> makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
>>>>> flowers.
>>>>> Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
>>>>> --
>>>>> Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
>>>>> <http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
>>>>> "Autograph Of Zorro" {digital video}:
>>>>> <http://www.lulu.com/items/86000/86128/1/preview/45-Zorro.mpg>
>>>>> The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
>>>>> project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>

>>>> The photo I am basing my portrait of Peter Orlovsky on:

>>
>> https://www.ebay.com/itm/374305699432

> Good morning, interesting.

Yo... agreed...