Peter Orlovsky, a Life in Words: Intimate Chronicles of a Beat Writer 9781612055824, 9781612055831

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Peter Orlovsky, a Life in Words

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Peter Orlovsky, a Life in Words Intimate Chronicles of a Beat Writer

Edited by

Bill Morgan

First published 2014 by Paradigm Publishers Published 2016 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017, USA Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business Copyright © 2014, Taylor & Francis. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Orlovsky, Peter, 1933–2010. Peter Orlovsky, a Life in Words : Intimate Chronicles of a Beat Writer / Peter Orlovsky, edited by Bill Morgan. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-61205-582-4 (hardcover : acid-free paper) ISBN 978-1-31563 - 284-1 (eBook) 1. Orlovsky, Peter, 1933–2010. 2. Authors, American—20th century—Biography. 3. Beat generation—Biography. 4. Gay men’s writings, American. I. Morgan, Bill, 1949– editor of compilation. II. Title. PS3565.R58Z46 2014 811'.54—dc23 [B] 2013046454 ISBN 13: 978-1-61205-582-4 (hbk) ISBN 13: 978-1-61205-583-1 (pbk)

For Peter and his family: Kate, Oleg, Nick, Julius, Lafcadio, and Marie

Peter, Lafcadio, Kate, and Marie Orlovsky, July 26, 1987, Long Island. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

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my imagination of an eternal boy walks on the streets of San Francisco —Allen Ginsberg, “Malest Cornifici Tuo Catullo”

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Contents Foreword

xi

Acknowledgments

xxi

Introduction

xxiii

Chapter 1

San Francisco, 1954–1956

1

Chapter 2

Morocco and Europe, 1957

52

Chapter 3

New York, 1958–1960

82

Chapter 4

The Mediterranean, 1961

124

Chapter 5

India, 1962–1963

175

Chapter 6

America and the Farm, 1964–1969

214

Chapter 7

The Later Years, 1970–2010

240

Index

285

Index of Orlovsky's Poems by First Line

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Allen Dying for Peter Orlovsky You were dressed in white Kneeling at blanket edge Swathing throat in petals As the brethren wept Acolyte administering As rehearsed in myth A mantra of the heart Stirring with a breath Our sacred marble cat Ascending milky air What next you whispered Shuddering a wing Groping infant blind Into the shock of the new

—Patti Smith

“Allen Dying,” copyright © Patti Smith, written for this book, used by permission.

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Foreword Ann Charters

One question I asked before I became disturbed. How does one fight or stand up for one’s self if he is weak like me, when other people are weak, and because of this weakness, hostility is radiating from them onto me?—How, when I am weak, can I keep free??? [. . .] It’s good my handwriting is poor—so some people won’t take time to read what I say (including myself).

—Peter Orlovsky, journal, August 13, 1954, 2:00 AM How goddamn cheap I become at times, how I want to write my thoughts “down” on paper so that I might become like Kafka, so my “dear” name lives on.

—Peter Orlovsky, journal, November 12, 1954 Twenty-one-year-old Peter Orlovsky wrote these entries in his journal shortly before he met Allen Ginsberg at the end of 1954, unaware that his “dear” name would live on into the next century as Ginsberg’s lover and companion. Allen and Peter together were among the most prominent in the group of post–World War II American writers who became widely known after the publication of Ginsberg’s provocative poem Howl (1956) and Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road (1957). To a large reading public they were immortalized as the “Beats.” Included in the group were also the novelist William Burroughs, the poets Gregory Corso, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Gary Snyder, Leroi Jones, Diane di Prima, and many others. In the United States at midtwentieth century these authors were loosely affiliated by their shared idealism, their bohemian lifestyle, their dissatisfaction with the politics of Cold War America, and their championship of nonconventional ways to live and to write. In his lifetime Orlovsky was little known as a writer. Dedicated readers of Beat literature know that he was a poet in his own right, though his publication was slight. As Ginsberg’s companion, Orlovsky’s spontaneous “Second Poem” was included by editor Donald Allen in his groundbreaking anthology The New American Poetry 1945–1960 xi

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(1960). In 1978 a collection of Orlovsky’s poems, Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs, was published by Lawrence Ferlinghetti at City Lights in San Francisco, volume number 37 in the Pocket Poets Series. It was reprinted in 1992 (Ginsberg’s Mind Breaths was number 35 in the series). Orlovsky and Ginsberg collaborated on Straight Hearts’ Delight: Love Poems and Selected Letters (1980), often cited as a testament for the gay liberation movement. People knowledgeable about American art films know that Orlovsky, along with the poets Ginsberg and Corso and the New York painters Larry Rivers and Alice Neel, were included in photographer Robert Frank’s Pull My Daisy (1959), a film using a voice-over script improvised by Kerouac. Orlovsky also appeared in Frank’s lesser-known Me and My Brother (1969), a film documenting Peter’s older brother Julius’s mental illness. Orlovsky’s face stares out of often-reproduced photographs that show many of the stopovers on the Yellow Brick Road traveled by the core members of the Beat literary movement. It is April 1956 in the perennial light of a snapshot taken in North Beach, San Francisco; Peter stands shoulder to shoulder with Ferlinghetti, Neal Cassady, Robert LaVigne, and Bob Donlin in front of the City Lights Bookstore. Six months later, he’s in Mexico City along with his younger brother Lafcadio and their fellow travelers Ginsberg, Kerouac, and Corso, all grouped closely together by a tourist photographer in Alameda Square. Another six months and Ginsberg takes a quick photo of him newly arrived in Tangier in March 1957, clowning on the beach with Kerouac and Burroughs. An unknown photographer captures Peter’s presence, with Ginsberg, Corso, and Ed Freeman, on a street in Paris in March 1961. Four months later, he’s back in Tangier, this time sitting next to Burroughs, Corso, Alan Ansen, and Paul Bowles. In March 1962 he’s photographed by Ginsberg along with Joanne Kyger and Gary Snyder in the foothills of the Himalayas. In 1972 another photograph shows Peter and Allen in Miami, Florida, at a rally against the Vietnam War. In the fall of 1975 he is included with Ginsberg in a publicity shot for Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue. Perhaps most famously, naked Allen and Peter stand pressed side by side for Richard Avedon’s lens, their image later displayed on posters that were widely sold to American college undergraduates. For many years the posters were taped onto college dormitory walls as icons of sexual freedom. In his poetry Ginsberg wrote about Orlovsky with great affection, describing him as “Peter sweet holding a flower” in “Memory Gardens,” a poem composed after Kerouac’s funeral in Lowell in October 1969. Orlovsky also appeared at the end of Ginsberg’s second long poem about his mother in 1983, “White Shroud,” describing a dream Allen had in Boulder, Colorado, after which he awakened to go downstairs

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to “where Peter Orlovsky / sat with long hair lit by television glow to watch / the sunrise weather news. . . .” Perhaps most notably, Ginsberg expressed his love for Orlovsky in an early short poem he sent to Kerouac, “Malest Cornifici Tuo Catullo.” It is dated 1955 in San Francisco, shortly after Allen met Peter: I’m happy, Kerouac, your madman Allen’s finally made it: discovered a new young cat, and my imagination of an eternal boy walks on the streets of San Francisco, handsome, and meets me in cafeterias and loves me. Ah don’t think I’m sickening. You’re angry at me. For all of my lovers? It’s hard to eat shit, without having visions; when they have eyes for me it’s like Heaven.

If you’ve read Beat literature, you also could have met Peter previously on the pages of one of Kerouac’s “true life” novels. Orlovsky made a stellar appearance as the character Simon Darlovsky, a “beautiful brother” close to Irwin Garden [Allen Ginsberg] in Kerouac’s Desolation Angels (1965). This book is a thinly fictionalized chronicle of Jack’s adventures with his Beat friends during the summer of 1956 and into the fall of 1957. As Simon Darlovsky, Kerouac described Orlovsky as one of Jack’s favorite “mad ones” even before Peter made his first appearance in the book. Raphael Urso [Gregory Corso] says, “What a mad cat! . . . He’s insane.” Kerouac emphasized Orlovsky’s startling good looks: Simon Darlovsky “makes me look at him, his intense wild face with that soft hawk nose and his blond hair crew cut now (before a wild shock) and his thick serious lips like Irwin” [Allen Ginsberg]. Kerouac presented Simon Darlovsky as being only nineteen or twenty years old (Peter was actually twenty-three in 1956) and portrayed him as a young, wildly unstable character completely lacking confidence in his own identity, calling out, “‘Beautiful brother Jack listen! Here’s my hand to you in the world! Take it! Shake! Do you know what happened to me the other day?’ he suddenly cries in a perfect reproduction of Irwin, elsetimes he imitates Cody [Neal Cassady]. . . .” The character might have sounded a little like Orlovsky, but the exaggeration and manic presentation were vintage Kerouac. The Peter Orlovsky you will meet in this book has only a slight resemblance to the wacky kid immortalized in Kerouac’s sunny pages as “the greatest man in San Francisco” or the silent companion in Ginsberg’s tender poetry. Here, for the first time, Bill Morgan has used Peter’s words to take us behind his handsome face in the well-known photographs documenting his life with the Beats. Orlovsky’s journals, letters, and poems offer us glimpses of his mind with and without Ginsberg, as Peter’s pen often daily captured his thoughts from the mid-1950s

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to the mid-1980s, when his life began to careen out of control because of heavy drug use. There are at least two different ways to read Peter’s story. You could say that following Ginsberg’s lead, Orlovsky turned on and became the archetypal hippie or flower-power “love child” of the 1960s. There were obvious differences between the two men. Orlovsky had a much smaller ego than Ginsberg and lacked his poetic genius. Also, unlike Ginsberg, he wasn’t a natural exhibitionist. He had to get high to take off his clothes in public. He was very shy and never sought or felt comfortable in the role of a spokesman for the Beat Generation. As Allen’s partner, Peter paid a high price for their permissive lifestyle, because during their life together he was damaged physically and psychologically by their dedication to drugs and their supposedly “open-hearted” gay sexuality. Peter, though, had been seriously injured long before he began to live with Ginsberg. Suffering from inherited mental illness, receiving inadequate care during his poverty-stricken childhood, drafted into the army at nineteen during the Korean War, Orlovsky was discharged as psychologically unfit in 1954. He lived before the introduction of miracle psychotropic medications that offer help to millions of people today. He survived the chaos of his daily life saturated with drugs and alcohol on the Lower East Side and lived on to die from lung cancer, like so many straight Americans who had led less riotous lives. He died in Vermont on May 30, 2010, shortly before his seventy-seventh birthday. A second way to read Peter’s story is to regard it as a salutary reminder of the social and cultural distance we’ve come from the repressive society of Cold War America in the mid-twentieth century. During these times, Ginsberg and Orlovsky lived on the edge, experimenting with drugs and sexuality in an effort to open the doors of consciousness and explore “the territory ahead.” Perhaps part of the reason that Orlovsky is not better known as a writer today is that he lacked the idealistic commitment to specific social issues expressed by many of the major Beat authors. Like Kerouac, he had what Jack called in Desolation Angels a “non-political intelligence.” That was why—along with Peter’s enthusiasm for picking up girls—Jack befriended him. Kerouac portrayed him ecstatically in Desolation Angels, unlike his depiction of Ginsberg, whom Jack said he distrusted because Allen was “too political.” Orlovsky’s writing is a testament to his gentleness, generosity, and unselfish love for his family. He’s the original “flower child” in the Beat group. As a writer he was pledged to spontaneity, like his mentors Ginsberg and Kerouac. He trusted his own voice, though he was highly critical of his writing ability. The misspellings in his published poems made him seem little more than a clown to many casual readers. They considered him a loopy, unschooled funny man in his poetry, as if he

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were trying to be a Beat Harpo Marx. Everyone knows that in his soul the comedian Harpo Marx was already Beat, so why would Peter want to imitate him? In Peter’s writing he was always himself. Orlovsky’s words often shine in this collection, such as his description of the landscape while he’s hitchhiking through Wyoming in a letter to the artist Robert LaVigne on July 16, 1955: “Never did feel I could get through Wyoming. I baked in the hot sun for hours on end looking at my neighbors, the mountains, doing the same.” Peter’s usefulness to Allen is also evident on these pages. When Orlovsky stayed home while Ginsberg was traveling, Allen sometimes pressed him into service as his secretary. In a letter to Ginsberg in Paris on February 5, 1958, Orlovsky wrote from New York City that he’d bought copies of the little magazine Black Mountain Review number seven and read Michael Rumaker’s mostly positive review of Howl and Other Poems. Peter wrote Allen that “he’s [Rumaker] jumping on your back in [a] sincere way except he fucks up, but you will see it soon. He says ‘why do you (Allen G.) use phrases like “angel headed hipsters,” the adjective sentimentalizes, implies a mushed “goodness,” “innocence,” that no hipster, worthy of the name, would tolerate.’” In the winter of 1958, while Ginsberg remained in Paris, Orlovsky took a menial job at the New York Psychiatric Institute, the same hospital where a decade earlier Ginsberg had been a patient for seven months. On June 8, 1958, Peter wrote a letter to Allen after working on a “tough ward, suicidal patients, etc.” He asked Ginsberg about his memories of the hospital: “Do you remember the river here? The cold bodied bridge [George Washington Bridge] lit up like ark?—did you have a bed near the water window [the window on the side of the hospital facing the Hudson River] next to Carl [Solomon]?—what bed was yours?” For literary historians, Peter’s account of his daily life with Ginsberg, Corso, Kerouac, and Burroughs is probably the most detailed we will ever have. On November 3, 1958, writing to Corso in Rome, Orlovsky described a visit to Kerouac’s new home in Northport, Long Island, which Jack had bought for his mother with his royalties after On the Road made the best-seller list: “I looked around in Jack’s room and saw so many written notebooks that piled up thirty high—what a mountain of writing and still more to come and all the typed stuff laying around too much—Jack could drop dead now with all that writing and never have to touch pencil again.” Peter was also sensitive to the changes in his friends’ personalities. In the same letter, Peter told Gregory that “Jack is getting kindda strange now—like a Zen lunatic drunkard—but wait till you see him—he’s more drunker than a dog’s tail.” Unlike Kerouac and Ginsberg, Orlovsky never sentimentalized the Beat lifestyle. Though he loved the street life in Paris—“all the people here live Bohemian and dress like it. Never been so excited and happy—it’s real home here” [September 17, 1957]—often Peter was less

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content in the heavy company of Ginsberg and Corso and their crowd of hangers-on. Back in Paris with Allen and Gregory on April 22, 1961, Peter went to a gym “for an hour exercise in smelly odor of sweat that smells like the name of some cheese that you can’t remember the name of—I go there every other day and get high by doing exercises, yes high as like pot or heroin or benny [Benzedrine] only a natural one that’s more akin to the body.” Leaving the gym, he felt “born again, but the feeling don’t last. . . . I come back to my room and say hello happily to everyone and then bam—mope I go and forget to talk and just sit around [and] go blank which I ain’t got nothing against but it’s just a dopey deal.” Orlovsky was often uncomfortable with Corso’s fast-talking spitefulness and humiliated by Burroughs’s snide put-downs, since Bill was jealous that Allen had chosen Peter to be his partner. As Peter’s journals make clear, the inner Beat circle was beset with human frailty. In the early years of his life with Ginsberg, Orlovsky often supported his friends with money from his monthly disability checks from the Veterans Administration. His mother Kate forwarded them regularly from his Long Island home address to wherever he and Allen were traveling. In 1957 he was in Tangier when he learned that his stipend had increased from $17 a month to $50, and he realized that he and Allen could live cheaply in Spain for the rest of their lives. The steady presence of these VA checks, plus the occasional menial jobs Peter worked to pay expenses, explain how Orlovsky, with Ginsberg’s help, managed to survive while believing that money was not an essential thing in life. Orlovsky insisted that Ginsberg remain “pure” and uncorrupted by money as well. He supported Allen’s decision to continue to publish with City Lights instead of a Madison Avenue publisher, so that he could continue to write what he pleased. In a draft letter to Ginsberg in March 1958, Peter advised, “Jack [Kerouac] says you write too political, but I say you go on writing whatever sadness or thoughts come and sprout into your mind or sprout off on typewriter.” It wasn’t until the end of Ginsberg’s life, after he’d sold his literary archive to Stanford University and signed with a major agent who could get him large advances for his books, that Allen could afford to live in an elevator building on the Lower East Side. Orlovsky’s own indifference to money is vividly shown in his writing. By 1963, when he lived with Allen in India for nearly two years, his VA checks had risen to $107 a month. In a poem Peter worried that the US government would investigate him for receiving “too hot a deal” with such a large stipend. He gave his money away freely to street beggars in India, but in September 1963 when he traveled by train through Pakistan on his way back to the United States, he was overwhelmed by the corruption of the policemen and government officials he encountered,

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who insisted on bribes all the time. Peter’s journal entry for September 23, 1963, evokes a poignant sense of his distress: Policeman asked me for friendly baksheesh [bribe]. So after pondering like a chicken on this crowded family Pakistani train, I gave it to him, $180 in travelers checks and 26 dollars and 34 rupees— passing my money around the train compartment. They are all interested in the value of American dollars and what you can get for it in Pakistani money—so now the policeman wants to give it back to me. He does and I wait until someone else asks me for it and give it away again.

Five years later, living on the Lower East Side, Peter took part in so many anti–Vietnam War demonstrations that he wrote the VA and asked to have his checks stopped, though as Bill Morgan states, he may never have mailed the letter. Orlovsky had a conscience, which his study and practice of Buddhism supported during the second half of his life. Orlovsky’s heterosexuality might come as a surprise to readers who know him only as Ginsberg’s lover, but like many others I can testify to Peter’s interest in women. I confess that I have a personal interest in the subject of Peter Orlovsky. In one of his letters to his mother Kate, he mentions me when I was a nineteen-year-old college student in Berkeley, California. On March 21, 1956, Peter wrote to his mother, “I’ve been feeling extremely good, so good that living doesn’t seem like a big negative problem as it did before. There’s a big blue eyed mystical looking, nineteen year old girl here who likes me and I her, so the world’s a little bit like heaven now.” Though we were never lovers, our lives intersected many times between 1956 and 1997 in California, New York, and Stockholm, Sweden. Our friendship began with a blind date on March 18, 1956, arranged by my friend Carolyn Cain, also an undergraduate at the University of California at Berkeley. Peter took me to the cottage where Ginsberg was living on Milvia Street, and though we arrived too late to enjoy the spaghetti dinner Peter had cooked for Allen’s guests, afterward we attended the poetry reading at the Berkeley Little Theater, where Ginsberg read his complete “Howl.” Peter didn’t own a car, and later that evening he chivalrously walked with me back to my dormitory on Prospect Street at the other end of Berkeley. It was the third time that day he’d made the hour-long walk. After I had discovered on our earlier walk together to Ginsberg’s cottage that Peter and I had both grown up in Russian Jewish immigrant families, we talked very easily together. On our walk back through Berkeley, Peter was so sure of his opinions that we argued about “Howl” nearly the length of Dwight Way. He thought it was as great a poem as any that Whitman had written in Leaves of Grass. I was in my junior year as an English major, immersed in literature by Thomas Hardy and William

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Butler Yeats, and I disagreed strongly. Peter must have accepted our differences of opinion, because he wanted to continue our friendship. Right after our blind date, he wrote me two letters from the housing project in San Francisco where he was living with his brother Lafcadio. I was already in love with Sam Charters and didn’t reply. I didn’t see Peter again for ten years. In the spring of 1966, living on the Lower East Side, I called on Ginsberg in his and Peter’s apartment on East 10th Street in Manhattan. I had started to compile a bibliography of the works of Jack Kerouac, and I had some questions to ask Ginsberg. Peter stayed in the kitchen the entire time I was there. When I went into the kitchen to take his photograph, he was much quieter than I remembered him. He was immersed in what he called his “kitchen yoga,” obsessively cleaning the apartment and taking care of his mentally ill brothers, who also lived with him and Allen. In 1970 I saw Peter only occasionally when I visited the farm in Cherry Valley in upstate New York, which Ginsberg told me he’d bought for Peter “to get him out of the amphetamine hell of the Lower East Side.” At the farm I saw less of Peter than I did of his brother Julius, who was a constant catatonic figure facing the stove in the kitchen. Peter spent most of his time outdoors, working in the garden and doing chores. In 1981 Peter and I met again in Boulder, Colorado, when Ginsberg brought me to the Naropa Institute to lecture with him on the poetry of the Russian Futurist writer Vladimir Mayakovsky. It was part of a series of lectures Allen was giving on revolutionary poets whom he called “Wild Mouths.” Peter had been studying Buddhism and teaching his spontaneous poetics to students in his classes at Naropa since 1975. While I was there, Ginsberg was invited by Timothy Leary to attend the second LSD conference in Santa Cruz, California. Since Allen couldn’t leave his teaching duties at Naropa, he sent Peter and me as his representatives to the conference. We flew out of Denver and spent the weekend in Santa Cruz. Peter seemed sad. While driving to the airport, he told me that his girlfriend had recently aborted their child at Allen’s insistence. The next afternoon in Santa Cruz, when I told Peter that he looked handsome in his summer jacket, with his long blonde hair caught back in a well-brushed ponytail and the blue in his shirt and necktie reflecting his eyes, he let me take the color portrait that was later included in my book Beats & Company. In 1983 while Allen and Peter were performing in Europe on a musical tour with Steven Taylor, they stayed for two weeks with Sam and me and our daughter Nora at our home in Stockholm, Sweden. I was immediately aware that Peter had become much less coherent. In Holland he’d taken amphetamines and smashed his banjo. For a few days Allen and Steven were afraid he’d gone crazy. In Stockholm, despite the cold weather, he refused to put on shoes, though his rubber

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thong sandals were not much protection for his naked feet against the icy slush on the streets. He was often brusque and hostile to Ginsberg, who was very patient with him. While he was with us, Peter stayed in a downstairs room, keeping very much to himself. Back in New York City in 1992, at the celebratory reading for the publication of The Beat Reader at St. Mark’s Church, Sam and I were asked to stay close to Ginsberg to protect him from Orlovsky, who stood across the room clutching a broom, staring at Allen. Some months later I learned that Peter was now a patient in a psychiatric unit at Bellevue Hospital. I called on him there, but he didn’t have much to say to me except that he was getting good care on the ward. We saw him for the last time in April 1997, when Sam and I helped him get fitted for a suit at a shop in the Garment District close to Times Square so he could look presentable the next day at Ginsberg’s funeral. I was moved to learn in these pages that the last photograph Allen took in his apartment before his death was of Peter together with Robert Frank. Frank was the muse who supported Ginsberg’s photographic art; Orlovsky was the muse who supported Ginsberg’s poetry. Peter’s book brings us close to their daily lives together during the miraculous flowering of creativity in the United States known as Beat art and literature. Our cultural inheritance is diminished without him. Stockholm, August 16, 2013

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Acknowledgments

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This book was only possible because several major institutions had collected and preserved Peter Orlovsky’s manuscripts and journals. Without their careful preservation of his papers, none of this would exist. I thank the Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas, Austin, in particular, for its assistance and cooperation. Thomas Staley, Cathy Henderson, and Rick Watson were especially helpful, as always. The Berg Collection at the New York Public Library was also a source for many fugitive pieces. Thanks to Isaac Gewirtz, its capable director. The Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Columbia University also houses significant numbers of Orlovskiana. Thanks to Michael Ryan I was able to easily find all that I needed. Polly Armstrong and Annette Keogh at Stanford University also uncovered many important documents and were a pleasure to work with. Other libraries and librarians contributed enormously to the research effort. Among them were Daryl Morrison at UC Davis, Robert Montoya and Brandon Barton at UCLA, the UC San Diego Library, Marvin Taylor at NYU, Penn State University Library, and the staff at the University of Virginia. I was also aided in my research by Patricia White, who helped me find countless important items in the California libraries. Her assistance was invaluable, and without it this book would not have been completed on schedule. I am indebted to the support given me by Peter Orlovsky’s guardians and friends, Judy and Charles Lief. They not only opened the Orlovsky archives to me but also cared for Peter during his final decade in Vermont. I hope they will find this volume a worthy tribute to Peter’s memory. The people at the Allen Ginsberg Trust have been very generous with their time and permission to reprint so many of Allen’s photographs. Peter Hale in particular has been the rock on which so much has rested since Allen’s death. No one loved Peter Orlovsky more than Allen, and I am glad to combine their efforts again, one last time. I hope Allen would approve of all that is found within this book. In addition, I would like to thank all of those who helped by answering my many questions and requests. Gordon Ball, a longtime friend xxi

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of Orlovsky, was always willing to provide advice and assistance and remained faithful to Peter throughout his life. Peter’s friends Joanne Kyger, Juanita Plimpton, Rosebud Pettet, Beverley Isis, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Robert LaVigne, and Gary Snyder have also supported this project. Special thanks is extended to Bill Keogan, who has acted as a perfect research assistant on this and many other projects. Bill Gargan has always been willing to lend his time and expertise to the work. Ann and Sam Charters have long been helpful comrades in preserving the legacy of Peter and Allen, and Annie’s foreword here is beautiful. Joe Lee has been gracious enough to allow us to reproduce Robert LaVigne’s painting of Orlovsky. And last but not least, thanks to Judy Matz, always faithful, helpful, and generous of spirit. Dean Birkenkamp, the publisher of Paradigm Publishers, saw the importance of the book early on and helped guide it through to the final stages. Thanks also to his staff, Jason Barry, Pete Hammond, Ashley Moore, and Megan McClure, for their patience and support. They’ve managed to turn these scraps of paper into a handsome book. Bill Morgan

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Introduction Bill Morgan

The Early Life of Peter Orlovsky The Pen Knows Its Job was an early working title for this collection of Peter Orlovsky’s writing. That was the phrase that Peter used to answer a student’s question about the origins of inspiration. I assume that he meant, don’t worry about getting ideas, your creativity will take care of everything. As with many writing tips, it sounds easier than it actually is. For Orlovsky, who was determined to be as uninhibited and explicit in his writing as he was in life, it did not come naturally, either. It wasn’t until he met Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and Neal Cassady that he realized that suppressing his thoughts would stifle his already fertile imagination. When he was inspired, his mind raced ahead of his pen. Sometimes it seemed as if he would never be able to record all his thoughts on paper as they flashed through his brain. In order to fully appreciate Orlovsky’s unique poetry it is necessary to be familiar with the story of the man behind the words. Peter, even more than his friends and fellow writers, was truly “beat.” The original definition of beat meant to be downtrodden, beaten by society, at the bottom end of the American economic and social ladder. And Peter had been all those things. Working on this book has convinced me that Peter’s life was one of the most heroic and tragic of all the individuals who played a role in creating the Beat Generation. For a while he triumphed over serious limitations, but Peter never had much of a chance—mental illness shadowed his entire life. Every member of his family, including his parents and four siblings, was institutionalized from time to time. Peter’s oldest brother, Nicholas, was the first of the children to be subjected to shock treatments. Julius was the second oldest and spent years in an institution without uttering a single word. Peter had an IQ of only 90 but was able to function well enough to take care of the rest of his family whenever they needed help. That assistance was a testament to his loyalty and love for his family. If he had received early psychological counseling, his life might have turned out differently. xxiii

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He may not have achieved as much or influenced as many writers and artists as he did, but his life might not have been as tormented. That was not the path that fate had laid out for him, however. He was born Peter Anton Orlovsky in New York City’s Lying-In Hospital on Second Avenue on July 8, 1933. He was the third of five children born to Katherine (Kate) and Oleg Orlovsky. His father was an unsuccessful Russian immigrant who at one time hand-painted silk ties. The family was so poor that as a boy Peter lived in a converted chicken coop in Flushing, New York, without heat or hot water. His parents separated after their final children, the twins Lafcadio and Marie, were born. At the age of twenty-two Kate suffered a botched mastoid operation that caused significant facial paralysis and left her disfigured and deaf. Abandoned by Oleg, she was seldom employed and had to rely on charity and meager welfare checks to feed her family. On many occasions the family would have nothing to eat for days at a time. At other times Peter and his siblings were placed in various institutions until Kate could scrape together some money and retrieve her children. Peter attended the local grammar school and went on to high school, where he decided to study agriculture because someone had once told him that a farmer never goes hungry. In those days the New York City school system actually had an agricultural high school with a working farm, but Peter was forced to quit before graduation in order to earn money to support his family. He worked as an orderly for a year and a half in several New York hospitals, including Jewish Memorial and Creedmoor State mental hospitals. Later he would earn his diploma in night school and spend a few terms in junior college. As Orlovsky wrote in a short autobiographical statement, “Grew up with dirty feet and giggles. Can’t stand dust so pick my nose. Trouble in school: always thinking dreaming sad mystery problems. Quit high school in middle of last term and got lost working in mental hospital old man’s bed sloppy ward. . . . Got to enjoy burnt bacon with mother’s help. Stare at my feet too much and need to undo paranoiac sudden clouds. Enjoy mopping floors, cleaning up cat vomit.” When he was twenty, on November 10, 1953, he entered the army as a private, although he was poorly suited to a soldier’s life. Within months he was transferred from the infantry to a hospital unit where he worked once again as an orderly. When he was sent to the base psychiatrists for evaluation Peter told the doctors that “an army with guns is an army against love.” That baffled the military doctors, and when Peter told them that he had seen all the trees along the street bowing to him, they knew he could never be molded into a soldier. On July 12, 1954, after undergoing psychological tests at the base hospital, he was honorably discharged, identified on his discharge papers as “schizophrenia, paranoid.” As a result he was eligible to receive modest veterans benefits for the rest of his life.

Introduction xxv

At the time of his discharge he had been stationed at the Letterman Army Hospital at the Presidio in San Francisco, far from his family in New York. He already had been involved with a young painter named Robert LaVigne, who had taken an interest in the handsome, lonely young man. Robert took Peter under his wing and offered him a bed in his studio in exchange for Peter’s serving as an artist’s model. It was to be Peter’s first experience with gay sex, or as Peter put it more directly, “My oh my, what a big cock he had, but I was young and strong.” For nearly a year they were involved in an intimate homosexual relationship, although Peter was decidedly heterosexual. This sometimes comes as quite a surprise to readers who consider the relationship between Ginsberg and Orlovsky to be one of the era’s great homosexual romances. However, Peter never had erotic thoughts about men, as the pages of his journal illustrate. The hundreds of sexual dreams and fantasies that he recorded were always about women, never men, and the relationships that he initiated during his life were always with women. It is a complicated story, but Peter made allowances when he had to, first for LaVigne and then for Ginsberg, but he never sought out male sexual partners. In December 1954 when he was introduced to Allen Ginsberg, his life was to change forever. Earlier Ginsberg had met Robert LaVigne in Foster’s Cafeteria in San Francisco and the two had struck up a friendship. When Allen mentioned that he might like to buy one of Robert’s paintings, Robert invited Allen over to his studio to look at his work. On the wall near the entrance to LaVigne’s studio was a painting of the most beautiful boy that Allen had ever seen. It was a five-foot-square portrait of Peter entitled “Nude with Onions.” Allen was struck by Peter’s intense stare that seemed to be directed at him alone, and he quickly asked, “Who is that?” to which Robert replied, “Oh, that’s Peter Orlovsky, he’s here, I’ll get him.” A moment later the young man from the painting walked into the studio and for Allen it was love at first sight. Within a few months, after a traumatic breakup with LaVigne, Peter moved in with Allen and they became lifelong companions. At Allen’s urging, Peter, who had already been keeping copious personal notes in his journals, began to write poetry. He continued to attend classes at the local junior college in San Francisco, but he really didn’t have a flair for academic work. The earliest entries that survive are Orlovsky’s diaries and letters written during the period after he left the army and just before he met Ginsberg. And it is with those entries that this book begins.

The Editor’s Involvement with Peter When my wife and I first met Peter Orlovsky he was walking down Avenue A with a box of pastries from the local Italian bakery. It was the late 1970s, and we had just moved into an apartment on the Lower East Side a few doors away from Orlovsky’s own building. Later, through

xxvi Introduction

“Nude with Onions,” portrait of Peter Orlovsky by Robert LaVigne, ca. 1954. Collection of Joe Lee. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

my work with his partner, Allen Ginsberg, I got to know Peter better. He loved to walk around our neighborhood, often in search of his drug connection, and occasionally I would go with him and listen as he yodeled and described the history of the literary community around Tompkins Square Park from his own unique point of view. Many of the old tenement buildings were then burnt out, and time and again he told me of plans he had to take over this or that vacant apartment house and renovate it with his own hands, always encouraging me to join him in his dream of urban squatting.

Introduction xxvii

At one point, during the course of my twenty years as Ginsberg’s archivist and bibliographer, Allen asked me to catalog and pack up Peter’s papers. By the mid-1980s Peter was having a series of substance abuse and mental problems and we decided to put his journals, books, and manuscripts in storage for safekeeping. Allen wanted to preserve them for Peter’s own use, which could come at some point in the nottoo-distant future, of that Ginsberg was certain. He always felt that Peter’s drug, alcohol, and mental issues were just on the verge of being resolved. Whether it was wishful thinking or merely delusional, he believed that at some point Orlovsky would have some sort of epiphany that would help him overcome these problems. Each time Peter entered a new therapy program or underwent treatment in a hospital, Allen felt that the corner had been turned. But unfortunately for both Allen and Peter, that miracle cure never came. After Ginsberg died in 1997, the court appointed guardians for Peter, and for the first time in decades he was given the help that he needed. As fellow Buddhists, those guardians, Charles and Judy Lief, were sensitive to Peter’s special problems and they provided him with the supervision that Allen never could. Under their kind but firm protection, Orlovsky was moved to St. Johnsbury, Vermont, where he lived near a Buddhist community that he was familiar with. He was able to get medical and emotional support more easily there, and many of the temptations of life in New York City were removed. When Peter died in the summer of 2010 the Liefs asked me to help place Peter’s papers in a research library where scholars might have access to them. In the course of that work I was reminded of just how interesting Peter’s writings were. It also reminded me that twenty-five years earlier, Ginsberg had talked about assembling an Orlovsky Reader. Nothing was ever done at that time due to Peter’s fragile mental and physical condition, but now the time seemed right to revisit his Orlovskian world. Many readers will be surprised to learn that there is a wealth of material by Orlovsky that has never been published before. In fact, most of his writing has never even been seen before. Although Peter wrote quite a bit, he was never interested in publishing his writing. It was Ginsberg’s dream that Peter publish and give readings, not Orlovsky’s. Peter seems to have written for the joy and challenge of the act itself. He enjoyed trying to put his thoughts on paper but did not seek publication. He always felt inferior to the people around him, and he did not believe that his work could stand up against work by Kerouac, Ginsberg, Corso, and Burroughs. What he failed to realize was that each of those writers had been influenced by knowing Peter and witnessing his free-spirited way of approaching life. Each of them was intrigued by mental illness, and in some ways Peter became their muse as well as guinea pig. In his obituary the New York Times noted that Peter inspired Beat writers with his “emotionally naked, loopy and

xxviii Introduction

occasionally luminescent poetry.” It was also Orlovsky who continually reminded the other Beat writers that making a living as a writer was not important; instead it should be writing for its own sake that drove them. He often reprimanded Ginsberg for going around the world giving poetry readings to satisfy his enormous ego, make money, and sell books. When it came to a guiding rule to life, Peter’s was one of love, both physical and spiritual, and he set an example that none of the others could equal. Although many of the Beat Generation writers claimed to be nonmaterialistic, none could compare to Peter, who whenever he had a windfall, would give the money away immediately. He was truly one of the “lilies of the field,” although he often thought of himself as merely “crazy as a daisy.”

Selection Process Peter Orlovsky always deferred to Allen Ginsberg when it came to life and literature. Under Ginsberg’s guidance, Peter began to write poetry. He kept track of his dreams at Allen’s urging and made extensive notes of people’s conversations. But to say that without Allen, Peter would never have become a writer, might be incorrect—for Orlovsky’s writing did not begin when he met Allen. As early as mid-1954, six months before meeting Ginsberg, Peter was keeping a journal in which he attempted to record his life and work out his emotional problems on paper. In an attempt to show the full range of Orlovsky’s talent and influence, I have selected materials in several different forms. As the work of organizing materials progressed, I realized that the best way to display this range would be chronologically. By doing this I have been able to combine journal entries, poetry, and correspondence into one narrative instead of featuring each category separately. And indeed it is often difficult to determine where a poem begins or a journal entry ends. Through William Carlos Williams’s suggestions to Ginsberg, Orlovsky learned to shape his diary prose into beautiful, insightful poetry, and many examples are reprinted here. I tried to focus on those items that reveal both the artistic and biographical sides of the man. One of the important factors in selecting a passage was the beauty and inventiveness of his language. Who else would ever combine words to say “I got a phone call / from my heart / its tune I knew before it rang”? I was also aware that the reader would find his relationship with Ginsberg, Kerouac, Burroughs, and the other writers to be of considerable interest, and I have included healthy doses of his comments regarding all those people. These passages might help fill in a narrative that is missing in the biographies of those writers. The reader will quickly realize that there are two worlds, the one that Allen Ginsberg wrote about and the one that Peter Orlovsky describes

Introduction xxix

for the first time here. Until now we’ve only heard Allen’s voice about their relationship and how Peter fit into the Beat world. It should be noted that this volume contains only a small percentage of the journals, poetry, and correspondence that Peter Orlovsky created during his nearly seventy-seven-year life. As much as 90 percent of his work remains unpublished, and the reader who wishes to learn more is referred to the research libraries that contain Peter’s original papers. Those are mentioned in the acknowledgments to this book. During Orlovsky’s lifetime only one collection of his poetry was published: Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs, issued by City Lights Books in 1978. A collaboration with Ginsberg called Straight Hearts’ Delight came out through the Gay Sunshine Press in 1980. It featured some letters and additional poetry by Orlovsky. I have tried to not reproduce much of the work found in those two volumes since they are available in libraries and bookshops. Instead this book features previously unpublished work or work that was published only in hardto-locate little magazines and the like.

Technical and Editorial Notes Early in the process this editor had to make an important editorial decision. Peter Orlovsky’s knowledge of correct spelling and the rules of punctuation was clearly nonexistent. This was combined with handwriting that was poor and occasionally illegible, a combination that called for a good deal of guesswork on the part of any editor. In the past, much time was spent trying to preserve Peter’s idiosyncratic spelling and style, and many editors have given in to the temptation to leave everything exactly as it appeared on the pages of his manuscripts, letters, and journals. Allen Ginsberg fostered this by encouraging Peter to just “write it down” without worrying about conventional grammar and spelling, all for the sake of spontaneity. In fact, if Allen had pushed him to correct his spelling Peter might have become frustrated in his attempts to capture elusive thoughts as they raced through his mind. Theoretically this was all well and good, but the primary goal of this book is to communicate the thoughts and words of Peter Orlovsky to a new readership that might not find his peculiar spellings as charming as Allen did. I believe that first and foremost a writer wants to communicate with his readers, and in my opinion, Peter was no exception in that. Before he met Ginsberg, Peter admitted that he had just been too lazy to learn to spell correctly. “My dictionary lies within easy reach—yet my body is weak, more correctly a weak mind or both, leave me where I am,” he wrote in a 1954 entry in his journal. Obviously he meant for his letters to be read and understood by the recipient, and no one was more frustrated by his illegible handwriting than Peter himself. More

xxx Introduction

than once I heard him lament the fact that he couldn’t read his own writing and as a result what he had written was lost forever. Once other people had made the decision not to clean up his spelling and grammar, Peter just took the path of least resistance and went along with them. The best example of this is his poem that he titled “Frist Poem.” Now, his dyslexic spelling might have been creatively unusual, but not once in the dozens of public readings of his own poetry did Peter ever say “Frist Poem” instead of “First Poem.” This was true in all cases of his mistaken spellings. He knew his brother’s name was Julius even though he spelled it as Juluis, and in some of his sentences there might be three or four or even more of these errors, but they were never misread in oral presentations. In addition to these examples, which the careful reader could easily figure out, some are more confusing. He spells father as “farther,” silver becomes “sliver,” and soldiers is consistently spelled “shoulders.” Then there are the words that are even more difficult to decipher: only after a lot of thought was I able to figure out that “symises” was Siamese, “Schexpiere” was Shakespeare, and perhaps almost playfully he mentions “heart grain” when writing about Hart Crane. For reasons of permitting Orlovsky’s thoughts and words to come to the surface in this book, I have dispensed with Peter’s unique spelling in all but a few cases. In his poetry, where traditionally his words have been left untouched, I have twice included unedited versions so as to include examples of the unvarnished form for those who would like to see it. For scholars who want to examine the originals, I refer them to the university libraries holding the material. Footnotes are used sparingly to identify people and items that might be unfamiliar to the average reader. Major characters are identified only at the point of their first mention, and readers should refer to the index in order to locate the initial footnote. In cases where Peter does not fully identify individuals, last or first names are included in square brackets only the first time in a letter or passage. Exceptions to this are for those individuals who appear on nearly every page of the book. Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and Peter’s family members, for example, are not identified with every new entry. The reader will be aware that when Orlovsky is talking about “Allen,” it is Allen Ginsberg he is referring to. Anything that appears in square brackets indicates that the information was supplied by the editor. Occasionally, when the handwriting has been difficult to decipher, I have made an educated guess as to what the word might be. Those too are in square brackets. The use of ellipses within square brackets [. . .] indicates that something has been deleted from the original for this publication. These deletions are never for the sake of censorship, but only to condense items and excise

Introduction xxxi

extraneous and repetitious material. Occasionally Orlovsky puts words in the wrong order, and those have also been rearranged for the sake of clarity. For example, early on he writes “waste of time class” which has been changed to read “waste of class time.” In his correspondence there are often multiple postscripts to the letters; sometimes these are non sequiturs that merely asked “have you seen so-and-so?” or “how is such-and-such?” Unless they are important to the context of the letter, those have been removed with no ellipses added.

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1

e

San Francisco, 1954–1956 1954 Editor’s Note: The earliest known examples of Peter Orlovsky’s writings date from journal entries he composed in the summer of 1954, just a few days before his twenty-first birthday. Although many people believe that Peter only began to write after he met Allen Ginsberg in December 1954, these fragments indicate that he was already extremely interested in keeping a record of his thoughts by that time. His first diary entries refer to his troubled relationship with Robert LaVigne, his academic studies in junior college, and his relationships with fellow students and teachers. They reveal an extremely shy and bashful nature that made it difficult for him to meet women. These early entries also indicate a deep love for his family, which would remain strong throughout his life. These texts display a desire on Peter’s part to learn all he can about art and literature. Orlovsky’s journals also reveal an inferiority complex and show how he tried his best to act “normal,” even as he questioned his own competency. There are no examples of actual correspondence until the following year, but fragments from drafts of letters are to be found in his earliest notebooks, indicating that he was writing letters to the people he cared about most. After meeting Allen Ginsberg in December 1954 Peter’s notebooks become less fragmented and more like a daily diary. Perhaps he was influenced by Ginsberg’s example, for Allen had been keeping a diary of his own since childhood. The earliest entries were written during a trip Peter took to New York City in the summer of 1954 to visit his family following his discharge from the army. It appears that this was a short trip and that he always planned to return to San Francisco. He used the time away from the West Coast to sort out his relationship with Robert LaVigne. Peter’s 1

2

Chapter One

Peter Orlovsky in army fatigues, ca. 1953. Photo Courtesy of the Peter Orlovsky Archive, University of Texas.

confusing sexual life had already begun by this time. Although Orlovsky is commonly thought of as Allen Ginsberg’s lifelong companion, sexual partner, and even “wife,” he was heterosexual by nature. The erotic fantasies he recorded in his journal always involve women, never men. Although he allowed himself to be used sexually by men from an early age, it appears that he was seldom “turned on” by them. Ginsberg was sexually stimulated by young, frequently straight, young men like Peter, but Peter himself would always have at least one girlfriend, and never chose male sexual partners for himself. This is not to say that Orlovsky didn’t love Ginsberg, but only that he was not sexually aroused by him. This complex relationship was compounded by Ginsberg’s growing fame, which, in years to come, would put their relationship under a public microscope. Even some close friends, like Lawrence Ferlinghetti,1 believed that Peter was gay. In the 1960s Peter and Allen quite literally became poster children for 1. Lawrence Ferlinghetti (b. 1919). Poet and publisher, author of A Coney Island of the Mind and the founder of City Lights Books.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 3

the emerging gay community. Whether Peter was straight or somewhat bisexual, the fact remains that he was attracted to women exclusively, as this volume will make perfectly clear. The emotional problems this created for a hypersensitive and troubled man like Peter are also revealed with increasing frequency. [July 5, 1954: draft of letter in journal]

Dear Robert [LaVigne]:2 In this room (Greenwich Hotel [160 Bleecker Street, NYC]) where the four small, close dirty walls make the unused white linen look more whiter than ever, I sit in a chair that is difficult to say whether it was painted marbled green or black—for the chair has been used by people who bring both such colors into this world and on the bed is your brown suitcase which now serves as a desk.

* * * Editor’s Note: Throughout his life, Peter Orlovsky would keep a record of his dreams. This entry appears to be the first instance of his doing so, but it is interesting to note that he was recording his dreams before he met Allen Ginsberg,3 Jack Kerouac,4 and the other Beat writers, all of whom also recorded their dreams faithfully. For purposes of this book, only a handful of the hundreds of dreams he recorded have been included. Some of these dream records were turned into poems, which is probably something that he did learn from Ginsberg. William Carlos Williams5 had been the first person to tell Allen to look at his prose notebooks as a source for poems, and he passed that tip along to many writers including Orlovsky. This first dream is included merely because it is the earliest. [July 8, 1954: dream recorded in journal]

Nicky 6 had some belongings, I wanted to get them—he had raisin bread—like ice cream box—tooth paste—these things he tried to sell for money—all the time I have the feeling of not wanting the responsibility of having to take care of his belongings—Oleg7 entered as well as another man who saved his life—[. . .] I forget the verbal words spoken—Another 2. Robert LaVigne (b. 1928). West Coast artist and illustrator. 3. Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997). Poet and author of Howl and Other Poems. 4. Jack Kerouac (1922–1969). Writer and author of On the Road. 5. William Carlos Williams (1883–1963). New Jersey poet and author of Paterson. 6. Nicholas Orlovsky (b. 1929). Peter’s oldest brother. 7. Oleg Orlovsky (1899–1982). Peter’s father.

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Chapter One

part of my dream—children playing with make believe guns—cars sliding along the streets—when the cops came—the boys separated. [July 9, 1954: draft of letter in journal]

Dear Bob [LaVigne]: [. . .] It seems as if the little things in life cause life to become what it is. Good news: I am sending you a suitcase full of everything. I am leaving this room, living out under the stars, [in] parks and [on] benches. Hence, for the next few weeks you will have no way to get in touch with me—only I shall be the one to write—you will have the pleasure of receiving. I will try to send a letter each day—only at times I am unpredictable in actions. With the coming of the morning there might be a letter from you. I quit this job selling ice cream—why—well—I eat more than I sell—I don’t sell enough. I stand all day in the sun—my feet kill me—in other words I’m a lazy brat—However Coney Island is a good place to [be]. Say, about the room at your place—I was thinking, it might be better to leave it alone, rent it to someone else, we can fix a little space in the studio for me to sleep—that way economy is gained.

* * * Editor’s Note: In late July 1954 Orlovsky took a bus from New York to return to San Francisco. Once there, he attended classes at a junior college and lived in the spare room at Robert LaVigne’s studio at 1403 Gough Street, which he mentioned in the previous letter. In addition to acting as Robert’s model, Peter also asked Robert to teach him how to paint, but the results were not completely successful. [July 27, 1954: journal]

On the bus leaving—good-by New York—I hate you only because I have hate inside myself [. . .] I seem to have difficulty in remembering my dreams—upon awakening I consciously don’t attempt to note my dreams. I feel guilty in not seeing Nicky on Sunday for a last time. The same feeling exists between me and Momma.8 I am shadowed with the feeling of “running out.” [. . .] The voice in me is lost—at times this is not so—but then it is, more so than ever.

* * * 8. Katharine (Kate) L. Schwarten Orlovsky (1910–1990). Peter’s mother.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 5

Editor’s Note: Back in San Francisco Orlovsky found that he did not fit in well with his fellow classmates. He felt inferior to them and thought that they were all watching and judging him. His journals are filled with the details of minor everyday occurrences that might have been overlooked by others, but to Peter they became major incidents blown out of proportion by his insecurities and paranoia. [July 30, 1954: journal]

I DON’T think I shall enjoy or delight in attending school, at some class that is. I am sensitive to a waste of class time. I noticed today as I went to the college making an appointment for examination, how aggravated I felt towards the students schooling there. Is this hate a projected hate from within myself? [August 4, 1954: journal]

Walking in a roundabout way to Gough Street9—Thinking—How far will I progress with Robert—that is—how far will I develop enlarge my character, personality—unfold myself—take on external knowledge applying to “the greatest moment—thus.” How far I have to go is like traveling towards the horizon, it keeps moving with each step—(is life to be left with this thought—or attitude?) Where does the beginning end—and end where the beginning does? I become jealous directed towards Robert as a young man with education. Thinking Robert may find someone else—more entertaining—leaving me—which would confirm the view—I am a “dope”—leaving me hanging from a ceiling by a thread length, dangling to and fro like a pendulum precariously—This reminds [me that] my lack of faith [in myself] is showing my attitude (a basic one) from day to day about myself and how I go about the day in activities.

* * * Editor’s Note: Throughout dozens of pages of journal entries, Orlovsky seems either unaware of or reluctant to put into words the sexual nature of his relationship with LaVigne. Based on Peter’s confessions, it would appear that the two men spent a good deal of time discussing their “weaknesses,” although it will take Peter a long time before he mentions exactly what those weaknesses might be. During this period Peter continued to see a psychological counselor provided for him by the Veterans Administration. The counselor didn’t seem to offer any concrete advice or help. Instead he suggested that Peter might consider 9. Robert LaVigne’s studio where Peter was living was located on Gough Street.

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Chapter One

entering a mental hospital. Peter must have found that prospect to be very frightening, since everyone in his family suffered from mental problems and had been institutionalized from time to time. [ca. August 1954: journal]

I can’t seem to feel or understand why Robert feels for me. Is it because of our psychological weakness, or strength?—Is it my body?—Is it because we in many respects are in the same boat together?—by that I mean, because of our mixture of conflict it makes it possible for us to stay together. Two people who are in the same situation have to travel the same road in order to gain a sense of direction. [. . .] Robert is far too good for my company. He doesn’t fully see this—The difference in Robert’s wisdom as compared to my own is tremendous. I in a way doubt him because of his wisdom (this is a psychological mechanism) he has so much—that I don’t know what he thinks of me, or why he asks questions, sometimes I can feel the reason behind him as big question, and if these questions are “raw in nature” I become [pissed] at Robert.

* * * Psychoanalysis will expose me to raw things—I don’t know if I have the strength to fight for myself—it takes tremendous self-confidence. (I write this “word” [self-confidence] in weak and thin print unconsciously)—I have done nothing but shed tears, anger, towards Robert—and escape off to myself for lonely walks—I am not aware of what I am saying. [August 11, 1954: journal]

Considering the possibility of postponing school, taking on full employment—for psychoanalytic analysis, also perhaps part-time school in evening will fit in. I notice when Robert and I argue, or become excited over some difficulty—things are said, implied, which don’t otherwise escape in normal conversation. Out of bed to write: My dreams seem to take steps away from me—I can’t understand them—they seem to have become impersonal—a farfetched thing, difficult to fathom. I am looking for a particular trend in the connection of dreams, can’t seem to find one. [August 13, 1954, 2:00 AM: journal]

Robert and I went to North Beach—visiting old acquaintances of his—I, when in the bars, feel out of place—with the “people” affecting me to the extent [that they] bring on old feelings of weakness, withdrawal—a dislike

San Francisco, 1954–1956 7

for “them”—these old-time feelings were increased by meeting Harriet10 and Jim, a friend of hers—these people who I am affected by both because of my own weakness to remain an “identity,” individual, and because of their hostilities, unconsciously so towards me or whoever is with them. [. . .] So that feeling disturbed—together with Robert’s questions, I felt raw—something came up—one of his questions aggravated me to the extent [that] I felt a hatred for him—I could not look to his face when he, so like a sage, a father with a love for the child’s first experience in life. [. . .] One question I asked before I became disturbed. How does one fight or stand up for one’s self if he is weak like me, when other people are weak, and because of this weakness, hostility is radiating from them onto me?—How, when I am weak, can I keep free??? [. . .] It’s good my handwriting is poor—so some people won’t take time to read what I say (including myself). [August 14, 1954, 2:00 AM: journal]

It can be truly said this week has been one of hell for me. The agony was tremendous although not on the verge of suicide, I wonder how much more I can take and—Robert—he seems to feel a certain doubt about me—I am not sure of this—Interesting how I spend tremendous energy on my relationship with Robert—It’s because I want to [here Orlovsky leaves a blank spot on the page]—(to complete this sentence is too much for me, I’ll leave it go until I have further knowledge)—How I despise those bitches who say and think they know almost all there is to know about the mind. [ca. August 14, 1954: journal]

It was my firm faith when I left for New York that we [Orlovsky and LaVigne], together, would dig the ground in preparation for a home, that we could care for each other, that [Percy Bysshe] Shelley’s poem “Love’s Philosophy” would intermingle with moments we were together and apart, that self-confidence shared between us could make us look each other in the face when conflict came about. I didn’t take into consideration my own weaknesses nor yours in our comradeship. Your age of knowledge and experience is ahead of mine. Tonight when I said, “So long, see you later,” the look in your eyes sent a sharp arrow through my lungs. [. . .] I cry to feel that this is the effect I gave. It is better we part [than] to let you know I have not the strength to endure, to remain together. Some things are better said on paper. If I said them to your face, I might fall apart or drown in tears. I thank beyond expression in words for all the experiences I have encountered with you. There doesn’t seem [to be] anything more to say in the way of thanks. 10. Harriet. A friend of Robert LaVigne’s who lived nearby on Sutter Street.

8

Chapter One

After Robert read this he came into my room, sitting next to me, trying to soothe my tears. Again I cried. I’m overjoyed to feel his warmth radiating from him. He saw my blue eyes and kissed my blistering red lips.

* * * [August 17, 1954, Tuesday morning: journal]

I never before have felt the continual doubt of my thoughts—I doubt even my capacity to go to college—most important of all, self-confidence seems to be washed from my hands—Robert, I feel, is far ahead of me in the development of the intellect—this causes conflict—I feel guilty for not studying as hard as he does—this makes for a gap between us—I have difficulty in looking into his eyes—I can’t keep a normal conversation with him without feebly stumbling over words—and thoughts I can’t understand—He before parting for work came into my room, kissed—saying “I love you”—I couldn’t look into his eyes. The struggle to keep going in life (in general) is a tremendous burden when in the company of those who are fairly weak. [Tuesday afternoon]

The interview with the psychiatrist felt good even though no therapy was accomplished—simply expression of the self is good for anyone— although I show difficulty in giving expression of myself in a concrete way—I am abstract in thoughts partly because concrete demands selfknowledge, such as I don’t have—such takes “time” in living to develop. Also most important at this time, is my tending to run away from the truth, reality—conflict—(I don’t exactly understand why this is)—I tend to think my escape is irrational—this is questionable, perhaps my conscience won’t accept a compensation—although I don’t think this is the case. The most critical example of this is when I become hostile towards Robert for him asking too many “raw questions—and pointing out my weakness of being passive in behavior.” I feel like a child for my lack of knowledge. OH! soul—I hope to undergo psychoanalysis in the future—even if only to find out—I peel like an onion. [midnight]

In reading Horney’s New Ways in Psychoanalysis,11 I came upon the phrase, “The Psychic Determinants of Exhaustion Through Work.” 11. Karen Horney. New Ways in Psychoanalysis (Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner, and Co., 1947).

San Francisco, 1954–1956 9

I had to re-read this over in order to comprehend its meaning. This statement has been one of my main problems in working at studies, if I don’t particularly enjoy the work, [I] become fatigued with ease—it takes all the energy I have to remain awake—this was true when a high school student, even later, at 19—when studying at evening school, I “became pooped” over-easily. Why? I can think up superficial reasons, but as to the core of the problem—I don’t know..??? [August 20, 1954: journal]

How much strength does it take to kill oneself?—does it take more strength than he [has]?—or the opposite, not strength, but complete disillusionment about the goodness in living? One of the reasons I feel weak is because of the lack of knowledge, the poorness with which I express myself. [August 22, 1954: journal]

I have not begun to dive into, or attempted to think back into the past. There, it seems to remain a blank wall: All my thinking and conflict exists and centers around present day, momentary reacting, especially in intrapersonal relationships. I can’t seem to, on paper, become concrete, only abstract or general in statement of attempting to explain or express myself. I will, when the occurrence arises, take note, there are distinct feelings which arise at moments, especially so when in a group, where, if I tend to remain silent, not speaking, “just listening,” I almost become panicky, with paranoid thoughts that others are thinking about me, that they are judging me to death (by their look at me), because I commit the worst crime of all when in a group—that of keeping silent, remaining in the background “just listening.” Thus I feel judged—to death branded—“He is a bore, stupid.” The feeling can be compared to a knife slowly entering into my lungs. [September 2, 1954: journal]

The doctor with whom I visited suggested of me entering a mental hospital, and together with Robert becoming angered over my stupidity, leaves me feeling low, and nothing new. It’s a shame one depends on “outside support” from others to feel as if one is a person. Although it seems that when one tends to live alone, a sea of complexity is the daily bread. It’s amazing that, through the years, I understand more than ever before, yet paradoxically confusion is the most frequent path.

10 Chapter One

I fail as an individual in interpersonal relationships, Robert and I can only go so far because of our difficulties. [September 9, 1954: journal]

I am not pleased with the expression I use of the English language. I feel annoyed at myself for lack of full free expression in writing. I use an over amount of words to state or describe an experience or situation. I feel blocked in attempting to describe experiences. I am not satisfied with “just words” and feel anxiety when unable to make clear simple experiences. Sometimes I fear getting out of bed—the bed is warm and “free,” unobstructed by intrusion. It is an escape from facing just another [day]. What happens is, I over-sleep. Comparable to a baby, who sleeps all day escaping confusion—only a baby is innocent while I’m guilty of sin, of “poor will.” [October 28, 1954: journal]

I washed my hands before taking this pen to write down my guilt. Thus feeling I can release more guilt by washing than by intellectual writing. Thus feeling I should wash my hands with my pen and not with soap “going down the drain.” [November 1, 1954: journal]

I wonder why I write: to please myself, to feel a certain order at the end of the day, to take refuge by using the face a white sheet of paper provides, to let somebody say who looks at my notes: “So this is Peter?” in a friendly way—while actually I am telling him indirectly to say this? Something [that is] accomplished by indirect methods—[I] can hide behind a bare wall, where criticisms can bounce off.

* * * Editor’s Note: The following entry is the first one in which Orlovsky makes mention of his family problems. Peter was close to his mother and siblings, and his father, who had abandoned and been absent from the family, had recently resurfaced and was to become an important figure in Peter’s life. His family obligations dominated his correspondence for years to come, and much of his time and energy would be devoted to worrying about their well-being. As the reader will see, one of Orlovsky’s most admirable qualities was this strong sense of family loyalty.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 11

[November 4, 1954: journal]

I feel sharply aware of possessing a shallow mind, which in part reflects itself on my poor spelling, which is that way because of my laziness. This is only a mild symptom. Received two letters from mother, inside violent thinking contradicted by externally appearing to be “quiet.” The letters seem to “eat” on me, never failing to throw me into a depressive mood, without reacting specifically to anyone. [I have] a continuous desire to stay in the street, away from my room, for I dislike having to sit at a desk, on it books (school ones) with pad for taking notes. [November 5, 1954, midnight: journal]

Inwardly I feel a need to write [about] my experiences. What makes this difficult is the invisible interpretation to actual happenings. All I know is I am in a room which has an invisible door, and experience pushes me through [that door] into another room, on, on, and on, so that until now I still don’t know where I am—because of the speed of the pushing, not to mention the direction, and not to even “think” of the location of the room, whether in a warm climate or cold, whether I need clothes or not—in case I should reach the front door. [November 9, 1954: journal]

Almost everywhere I go, [I have] a compelling tendency to be aware of people [and] how I must look at them to gain a certain amount of freedom. I don’t look up at them because of a certain falseness within. (I am only keeping my head down with pen, making believe [I am] writing to hide from them.) I stop thinking of my dreams while I sit here because I “feel” someone has made a remark about me, like static interfering with the function of shadow. So I react, clamming up—withdrawal, talklessness is my cloak, keeping me intact—so something thinks within me. I am sure I can describe this “over self-consciousness” in more singular words, I wonder if doing this eliminates conflict? Sitting next to a girl who, it seems to me, takes special care in the handwriting and movements of the hand together with the wrist. It affects me so that I also feel uneasy about how my movements are when writing. I didn’t look at her but with a stealing glance—perhaps this constitutes the real difficulty. What a blind weak fool I must be to get a good feeling just by saying “hello” to a teacher in an uncrowded hall. As long as a feeling of learning is with me, I don’t mind being unhappy. To be more exact,

12 Chapter One

this is when I feel best. I accept both Kafka and Dostoevsky’s attitude towards the search for the right road. How goddamn cheap I become at times, how I want to write my thoughts “down” on paper so that I might become like Kafka, so my “dear” name lives on. [November 12, 1954: journal]

Robert has shifted his attention off from me, a feeling of jealousy, hurtness, frustration, cool within. Good, now we don’t have to lean on to each other as pillars. As I look over it, my continued seesaw relationship with Robert would only hinder him, for now, on the verge of success, with his painting. I would only represent struggle, something of which one can’t bear to see in another, not to mention in himself. Surprising how, like a knife cutting, our relationship can become separated merely by the presence of another body (female). Before thinking of this, it didn’t seem possible. [November 13, 1954: journal]

There is friction between Robert, I, and his girlfriend [Natalie Jackson12]. The symptoms are: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Hate feeling for both—and what follows Don’t want to be touched by Robert Want to be left alone Severe anxiety whenever Robert tries to come close to me, asking “what’s the matter, you seem disturbed?” In the beginning when he first met me, nothing but praise—how I had great possibilities, while now only that he is sorry for things that happened to me.

His girlfriend (I have pushed down her name) makes these biting statements just to put me in my position. I was in my room studying— both of them come noisily in, I didn’t ask for their company. Robert says something which by now I [cannot] remember, she, sitting on my bed and after taking my guitar which lay against the wall began to strum on it. “You’re a good player, teach me how to play.” Answering back by turning my head only, “Who said I could play?” to which she replied with silence. Dream: A large hill was before us, we laid down because of the gunfire. I was between two men, on the right was an enemy, lying next to me. After he fired his gun, I was going to take it away, use it, to fire 12. Natalie Jackson (ca. 1925–1955). One of Robert LaVigne’s models who became a close friend to Allen Ginsberg and Jack Kerouac, and a lover of Neal Cassady’s.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 13

at a man on top of the hill, far away. It turned out that the man on my left took the gun away from the man on my right. The man on my right was in color of blue, red and white. Walking up this hill, had a date with a girl, [I] saw her coming. She looked good, colorful in clothes, lipstick. As she approached her age revealed itself into forty. I asked, “Are we going to have a date with me?” (sexual implication in the date, which I knew before meeting her). She said “Yes, the week after next.” This caused anxiety in that I had anticipated it this week—as she came I looked her over, and while she left I still retained my sexual feeling. [November 22, 1954: journal]

When barriers were partly removed between Natalie, Robert, and I, there was difficulty in looking at Natalie’s face, either I was too cold or her. Again, as usual, my reaction after asking questions in class is one of fear and trembling. Fear that I may show myself to myself and be seen through. Trembling because of the high pressure the heart under disguise subjects itself to.

* * * Editor’s Note: In mid-December 1954 Peter Orlovsky met Allen Ginsberg at Robert LaVigne’s studio. One night in late December while drinking in Vesuvio’s bar,13 Robert, acting the role of the Yiddish matchmaker, asked Peter if he was interested in Allen. Peter was hesitant since he wasn’t attracted to Allen, but he was also frightened by the prospect of being left alone if Robert made good on his plan to move to Mexico. Peter agreed to test their compatibility by spending an evening with Allen. Allen went to Peter’s room, took off his clothes, and laid down beside Peter on his mattress. When it came to sex, Allen wasn’t experienced and in spite of his desires he hadn’t slept with many men. He wrote in his journal that he had never openly screwed a man “with complete giving and taking” until that night. This marked the beginning of a relationship that would last for the next forty years, ending only with Ginsberg’s death in 1997. Under Ginsberg’s influence Peter continued to keep a journal and began to write poetry, too. In this first passage that he wrote after meeting Ginsberg, he mentions not only Allen, but Allen’s girlfriend at the time, Sheila Williams. Ginsberg, at the suggestion of his own psychiatrist, had been trying to 13. Vesuvio’s. A popular bar in North Beach, located next door to City Lights Bookstore at 255 Columbus Avenue.

14 Chapter One

force himself to have heterosexual relationships, but he gave that up once he met Peter. It took Allen a few months to finalize his breakup with Sheila. During that period there were some unpleasant scenes. In Peter’s journal entries he mentions that he himself had a sexual relationship with Sheila. That also became characteristic of the relationship between Allen and Peter. Frequently Peter had sex with women who were originally attracted to Allen. [December 30, 1954: journal]

Rapid twitching of muscles, on the side of the face, tip of the nose, on the chest, in the arms and legs, as if the small muscles want liberation from the bones. There is a tendency in me, now, to want to be alone: so as to brood over the conflict in me and what I see about me. And what I see about me, [is that] Sheila’s [Williams] child, Michael, is being smothered. I act awkward in the presence of the child: every action has meaning, the child moves in harmony with his body. I take deep painful breaths so as to hide my feelings when we are all in the kitchen. I feel I over-act in Allen’s presence like when I am feeling low.

1955 Editor’s Note: During the first few weeks of the year, Peter was being pulled back and forth between Robert LaVigne and Allen Ginsberg. Although Robert had suggested that he would be leaving town and that Peter should live with Allen, he still couldn’t quite make up his mind to let Peter go. Allen, who had been living with his girlfriend Sheila Williams and her young son in her apartment on Nob Hill, was now eager to find his own apartment where he and Peter could live together. Peter was caught in the middle and didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do, but through all the turmoil he continued to fantasize about the women he would like to be with. [January 1, 1955: journal]

Saturday night after seeing The Crucible at The Actor’s Workshop, Robert decided to go backstage and see Marian14 who was a member of the play and I [went] along with him. This was against my feelings, which were to leave the playhouse soon as possible, this desire was in turn caused by what took place during intermission time, where I fell into awkward silence. I wanted to talk to people but felt blocked to do so. That others could see my awkward shiver, thus seeing the cheap 14. Marian. In a 2013 interview Robert LaVigne was unable to remember the name of his friend.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 15

acting I was doing. So that to stare back with these feelings, a flood of feelings, horror at myself, smallness, stupidness, awkwardness, washed me out of there like a gust of strong wind. For three hours the pain of my whole self [was] in hell—for this is when I feel isolation, withdrawal closed-upness, incommunicationness, that any relationship to others is impossible, that I must breathe alone, from this a feeling of death’s shadow turns into my own shadow. That I no longer breathe to live a life, but to live a living death. [January 11, 1955: journal]

Talk with A. [Allen] on R. [Robert] walk. At room, ate, talked [about] history of my family, talked as if pulling off layers of skin, interrupting myself because of poor memory, couldn’t coordinate memories into continual flowing pattern. Robert came, startled at seeing Allen, asked for Dexedrine pill. Allen said, “Come over to my place, I have one.” I partly mad at Allen for leaving abruptly. [8:30 PM]

With Robert part of the evening, talked about our relationship. I feel man with hostility. Robert explains his justification in doing what he does, that our relationship in the past has been good, that he has done things for me, even though he suffers doing things for me. He said, “I have suffered doing what I did for you.”—“Everything I did was to help us both.” He feels Allen is wrong in what he does, I feel he [Robert] wants to put his jawed teeth into my body, emit a chemical to make me feel he has been good, that Allen has fed lies to me. I don’t feel intimate with Robert. Too many weak points. I feel blocked with him. He is too dead. I can’t talk with Robert over past experiences. No matter what I say he can take and use as he wants. He seems concerned about my hating him when he leaves. He doesn’t want me to feel this way. He justifies all he has done for me as to help me. The talk with Robert leaves me nervous as it did in the past when we would argue. Tried to sleep, stomach becoming a grinding agony shortly [before I] got up. [1:36 AM]

Conversation with Allen: Feeling Allen manipulates me. Remaining doubt. Felt the presence of my smallness. Loss of true feelings at times. A turn: on the path with signs. Allen says “No!” Robert says “Yes!” Peter says, “Both of you are pains in the ass, I am going.”

16 Chapter One

[January 12, 1955: journal]

At school a conversation with Sylvia15 about Kafka, she seemed to like me. As I was explaining Kafka’s Trial, thought of her in bed with me. Medium size, brown long hair, lively in spirits, partial superficiality, outgoing. Talk with Robert about our present feelings, and possibility of resuming intimate relationship. He seems more concerned about my “not to reject me (Robert)” than about the conflicting last month. His voice became deep although it would vary to a thin pitch. I don’t want to continue to be with him. I feel somewhat independent. [January 16, 1955: journal]

Feel broken. Can anyone talk to me, hold me as I am? It only takes an ounce of strength to lift the pen, [the difficulty] is to think it out. [January 17, 1955: journal]

Feel I am doing harm to myself, not studying, not seeing Robert, Allen. Lock myself up in this decayed room, where at least there is a minimum of noise. Don’t feel like studying—Depressed. [ca. January 18, 1955: journal]

All feels better, even though hurt feelings are in the air—Sheila has hostility for me—perhaps because of me drawing Allen away—or that I don’t seem to want to go to bed with her or she would like to at least know me but can’t because of my slower nature. Robert still is unsteady, he tries to overcome it by laughing so [as] to feel with the group with whatever is being said at the moment—Sheila and Allen, Allen who does most of the directing like a movie director, keep themselves fully occupied—I am only partly there when we are all together—Allen talking, which absorbs Sheila’s interest, caused Robert to feel outside. Sheila is at odds with me, Allen tries to help her—she, like me, goes into lapses. She said in despair, “I want to get drunk.” It’s difficult to breathe at times. [January 20, 1955: journal]

I should be studying hours, instead I go about doing other meaningless acts, like fixing the bed, washing my hands, looking around the room, picking up something else other than a school book. My mind seems 15. Sylvia appears to be a classmate of Peter Orlovsky.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 17

blocked in writing feelings and recalling past experiences, and that I give more concern to how I write and think than what I think.

* * * Editor’s Note: On February 3, 1955, Allen found an apartment at 1010 Montgomery Street and asked Peter to move in with him. They lived there for a few months until Peter left to visit his family in New York that summer. While living on Montgomery Street Peter continued to attend junior college classes and he and Allen purchased a car for trips out of town. [February 15, 1955: journal]

At school, in the bathroom, I stood at the urine receptacle, in attempt to urinate; but as it was, unable to because of feeling other students were noticing me stand there for a longer period of time than usual for this, hence leaving before I could piss. Feeling disgust—to think some invisible hand pushed me out of the bathroom door. At school I play the role of a mummy—talk to no one, even afraid to look at whomever seems interesting. I walk as like a soldier at attention. Can’t talk to teacher. [. . .] Death seems to be on my shoulders when I write like this. Out of touch with myself. Poor time in math class, problems I couldn’t do, but nevertheless should be able to do—which

Peter Orlovsky standing on Telegraph Hill beside the car he and Allen Ginsberg purchased in 1955 and nicknamed “The Hearse.” Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

18 Chapter One

means I am falling behind—which means in order to become a good student I must study hard, but that is something I can’t do because of not being interested in Algebra in the first place, so I sit, make excuses to myself and fall behind—drop out of school—that’s the easy way. Fun to sleep—That is how small my world is. It seems when on a path of this thinking it is difficult to recognize the positive in life but only the negative—Allen will dislike me when I tell him how I don’t want to have intercourse with him. I can imagine him becoming cold—perhaps leaving to move elsewhere. To prevent this, I could leave first, however. It will be perhaps better to separate, I can’t play the role of a woman in blue nor can I be sweet, tender and pure—separation by reason—go the way of the world.

* * * Editor’s Note: Although Peter contemplates leaving Allen, he is never able to make a break. He does manage to finish the school term even though he is tempted to quit. During this period he continues to write and begins to think of himself as a writer, though he has little confidence in what he writes. [February 24, 1955: journal]

Increased feelings of a death-like state of being. Breathing now is a difficulty with me. My writing is awkward. I feel unable to talk to people because of having nothing much to say. Dream: of fighting Nick and mother. I would throw white flour over Nick. He was chasing me. Thought of writing my diaries to form a book—A Book of Peter’s Diaries. Finished a philosophy test, surprised to find myself answering the questions with an un-nervous hand, and able to write in clear interrelated sentences. Something which I don’t often [do]. Also urinated with partial ease. Trying to hum a tune, like oil, so as to loosen my awkward guilty white body. [March 1, 1955: journal]

Actually, I am not so bad as I give the appearance of being. However this may be only a feeling of the moment, considering how my head shakes as I write and how nervous I am sitting here writing in the cafeteria, partly afraid to look up, yet on the other hand how pointless my emotional nervous behavior is. Why shouldn’t I be able to just look and do as I feel underneath? Here all of a sudden, all the young

San Francisco, 1954–1956 19

girls start saying hello to me. Writing near my left elbow are three girls. Hoping to lose my nervousness on this white page in black ink, trying [to] control my handwriting, feeling I have done this to a certain extent, I will stop writing and resume eating. [March 4, 1955: journal]

Saw in a movie, Member of the Wedding, a girl who isn’t taken seriously by anyone. The youngster in it also, who played a small image of her in her youth, would kneel down to pray at bedtime, the impact of this shot a spear from the bottom of my foot up to the top of my head, how I at 13 and 14 would carry on like this, praying for mommy and daddy and all those I know to be kept safe and sound. Even at 18, 19, I would sing and hum a cowboy song of this praying kind, “I pray for mommy and daddy who I’ll remember through till my dying day.” Yes in my heart joyful tears start for mommy and daddy—now I sing blues songs—“Jelly Bean Blues” to keep me from losing my head in a difficult situation. [March 8, 1955: journal]

Sleepy days. Again today I forgot my dreams. Can you imagine the troubled state I am in, unable to face the world of hell? Reading history—going off into a sex fantasy . . . in Mexico walking along, partly lonely—have to make new friends—going along the market street for food, a young, high school girl approaches me, I take her along, talk to her, take her to my room, I don’t know if she wants money. She’s young, firm breasts and legs, the youthishness is around my legs. [March 14, 1955: journal]

Luck is like water for me, it falls out of my hands. [It’s] just as good, I would only misuse it. Instead of grinding my teeth, I keep nervously moving my toes inside my shoes. Finished a philosophy test, failed. Could hardly write enough to answer a question. All my thinking is this way, so that all my efforts [amount to a] few small sentences. Instead of studying for a test, I think of other things—why I can’t study, why I can’t grasp ideas, why I can’t remember ideas, why I can’t think, why I can’t live without conflict, why I have conflict, these are only a fraction of [the] questions. Peter is a question mark? Natalie [Jackson] came into my room yesterday. Trying to talk to soothe my uneasy feelings. She said hello in a submissive voice—“Hi” was my reply, then quickly back to studying. She stood there, hurt no doubt for me making her appear ridiculous standing there.

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Natalie Jackson, ca. 1955, San Francisco. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

[March 18, 1955: journal]

I am out of step with myself. I wonder if I can put myself back in step, it means reversing the gears. Only going backwards, slowly self-destruction turns on itself, when one is robbed of his natural rights. Natural for man to love—I am a poor lover—I suffer from my poorness, live like an icicle, frozen. On the ferry, I spit into the water, there saw myself, a speck the same with the ocean and how I disappeared in time.

* * * Editor’s Note: The following journal entry is typical of this period and is included because it touches on several issues that were always on Peter’s mind. Orlovsky was painfully shy and deeply concerned about what other people thought of him. His shyness may have been a result of his own feelings of guilt and a complete lack of self-confidence when it came to intellectual and sexual matters. His psychiatrist seemed to offer little help, although it is never made clear just how much Peter told the doctor about the sexual nature of his relationships with Ginsberg and LaVigne. [March 23, 1955: journal]

Again today a sense of being lost in actions, that goddamn over-concern about other people seeing me doing something I don’t want revealed.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 21

I feel childish, play with other students, taking advantage of their immatureness. Guilt pushes my head down to face the ground. I write with many “my’s” in my sentences. Dr. Sears16 suggested “transference of meaning from one thought to another,” that even though I am thinking about B, A is contained in B, so B is a combination of A and B, only A is dominant, but this is ambiguous as when I started with A and saying now B is actually underneath A, leaves me in more doubt, it seems only another answer. In the cafeteria, sitting next to a Spanish girl who was with a male student, [. . .] her arms up to the shoulders showing. She got up, brushed her ass, fairly round, against my arm, although I had my black coat on, the accurate feeling of two halves, cut in the middle partly remains in my mind. I curse my luck, of having my coat on. [I] passed her as she was going to the library, [I] retain this fear that she may come up close to me, I may act awkward, scare her away—although she gave me an inviting smile which helps. It feeds my imagination. I feed my imagination by looking at girls’ asses on the street, at being a good well-known creative person. [March 31, 1955: journal]

No dreams. Allen likes to sleep with me. He claims I help him release emotions of some nature, that he feels relieved, freed when sleeping with me. For me: I don’t like it. His body is like an octopus, always in the next moment about to rub his hand against me. Sleep is shallow, waking up in a tired state, more so than I went to bed with.

* * * Editor’s Note: For several days Orlovsky had been suffering from a bad cold or flu. In this entry he records the use of terpin hydrate, which was commonly used in the 1950s as an expectorant. It contained a high percentage of alcohol as well as codeine, and is his first reference to any type of drug use. It prompted him to remember his childhood in Wyandanch, a small town in Suffolk County on Long Island. [April 1, 1955: journal]

Last night took some terpin hydrate—effect immediately—arm gestures, my body worked smoothly. Once in bed I went back to Wyandanch days (8 years old). Remembered my loneliness, sickness, and how my mother looked. I tried to recapture the old appearance of the bungalow, 16. Dr. Sears was Peter Orlovsky’s psychiatrist at this time.

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it was only one story high, with a green tar roof, front porch, my room in the summer when I was sick, the front screen torn in places left the flies and mosquitoes come visit me in my dreams. I couldn’t remember how the inside space was arranged, except for the pot-belly stove near the end, close to the back porch where the outside pump was fixed up. The smell of bacon, good tasty bacon on honey-like toasted bread will never escape me. How many windows and where they were placed, how the house was divided inside, how the backyard was arranged, whether or not there was a fence around a garden, the big oak tree there, where when climbing up to the top, the insane house17 could be seen in the misty distance. Also unforgettable was the grand seat on July 4, a thrill that upturned us Indian-like youngsters. Nicky was with us, he was four years older, his imagination would free me into thinking I was in a dream in some unknown and big world. I am sure there were no apple trees for my memory would not dare fail me on such things. [I had] fights with Julius,18 who was a year and a half older. It was he who would have to be sorry for beating me up—and it was I who would feel superior or justified and proud I [had] suffered when he would come to say he was sorry. Nick had more of a controlling influence, Julius a hating influence on me. Mother was a sympathizing agent, her warm smile and deep emotional touch with her hands helped sleep come over me when upset, the smile which I still keep. My father was a ghost in the night who chased us from playing hide and seek into hiding in the house. He beat us mostly with the strap from his pants when we were naked or partly clothed. I managed to stay on the careful side of my father. Julius was the strong one of us all, he defied father and he stood on his two feet until the blows became all too powerful for him. Julius is Nietzsche’s criminal—a strong man made weak—this is partly [the reason for] Nick’s respect for Julius. [April 4, 1955: journal]

Sheila [Williams] came into my room, lies on my bed, three in the morning. Drunkenly excited, perhaps on the verge of a breakdown, crying “Allen hit her—left her—all the world is shit—how Allen loves Peter—she loves Allen—Allen must go to Peter—she is left out—he slaps her—I have nowhere to go—can I stay here?—I’ll be good.” I talk to her but it only aggravates the problem and she goes about taking her coat off. “Don’t touch me, I feel like a prostitute. You people go about writing poetry so you can become saints, you’re no good, all of you.” [. . .] Sheila ends up with Allen in his room. 17. This “insane house” is probably a reference to the Pilgrim State Psychiatric Center, which was nearby. 18. Julius Francis Orlovsky (b. 1931). Peter’s brother.

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Allen Ginsberg and Peter Orlovsky posing in front of The Cannery at Aquatic Park, ca. 1955, San Francisco. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

Allen said last night, as we were in my bed together, “Would you like to be my life companion,” I gave a vague answer. He said it was a compliment. [April 12, 1955: journal]

I am hemmed in on all sides, I can’t take any positive action—can’t write a meaningful letter to mother—don’t know how to begin one to Nicky—can’t do something I want to. It is like a knife playing on the strings of the nervous spine and I dare not yell, lest my wits be taken away from me. “Trapped in a trap and dying” is the feeling. Stomach is eating inside. satisfaction security self-esteem

24 Chapter One

anxiety nervous body

* * * Editor’s Note: In mid-April Peter planned to stop his visits to the psychiatrist, but he later reentered therapy. In his journals he doesn’t reveal why he wanted to discontinue his therapy, but he must have felt he wasn’t seeing any positive results. [April 22, 1955: journal]

I stopped becoming intimate with Allen. Talk with him only on barest necessities. He luckily keeps away, his eyes give me a careful scrutiny, perhaps saying “I want to like you, but you don’t want to do that to me.” Every one of my movements seems to be out of harmony with myself. Easily annoyed at itches on the body, outside noises—I feel mean towards anybody, reading Plato on the train, tried to read faster, poor comprehension—I now, half hour later, forgot what I read.

* * * Editor’s Note: Peter continues to dream of making love to women, but it seems that he can never bring himself to act on his desire. [April 28, 1955: journal]

Met Joan in the school library—spoke of her writing a composition concerning Dostoevsky and Marx. She wants to write a 2000 word paper saying: “Man must suffer because of [his] turning away from religion. Now he is left worse off than before.” I only said things and asked questions that confused her. She speaks like a young pup, who just after being released from a leash goes running out in the sunshine, but because it has difficulty in seeing, the light is far too bright for its small forlorn eyes, she yells, barking. I found myself wanting to be with her, but her [youth] makes me nervous. She has clear skin, dyed dark red hair, lips thinner than mine, her breasts [which are] covered by a blue sweater are the size of an expecting mother. Like a child embarrassed at what it is saying, she moves her hands, feet, head, and body in all positions when talking. She doesn’t look at me when speaking.

* * *

San Francisco, 1954–1956 25

Editor’s Note: At this point there is a gap in Orlovsky’s journal—it doesn’t pick up again until October 1955. However, it is likely that Peter continued to keep notes, which are now lost. On May 1 Ginsberg quit his job in market research and lived on unemployment until his graduate school classes began at the University of California at Berkeley in the fall. During the summer Orlovsky returned to New York to rescue his youngest brother, fifteen-year-old Lafcadio.19 The boy was causing problems at home and their mother was on the verge of having him committed to a mental institution. Peter decided that he would take care of Lafcadio in San Francisco, where they could both continue their educations. That summer Peter hitchhiked back East to visit his family and invited Lafcadio to return to California with him. In their initial letters both Peter and his mother Kate continually refer to Lafcadio as Amiel, which was his middle name. They did this until February 1956, at which time they began to call him Lafcadio, or Laff for short, never to return to the use of the name Amiel. The reason for the change is never revealed. For the sake of clarity, I have included the name Amiel only at his first mention, and afterward have taken the liberty to use Lafcadio until February, at which time the issue becomes moot. In this letter to Ginsberg, Orlovsky makes his first mention of Jack Kerouac, Allen’s old friend and fellow writer. Later, when Kerouac and his mother moved to Northport, New York, Jack would become close to Peter’s family, who were living in that same small town on Long Island. The letter also refers to a list of friends living in New York City that Allen had given to Peter. Orlovsky made contact with these people while he was in the city, and from that point on, Allen’s friends became Peter’s friends. [July 12, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Northport, NY, to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: At my mother’s home in Northport, sitting outside here in shade hotness around me. Arrived Saturday evening, just in time to see Nicky at hospital.20 Either it’s my laziness or the country. Nature, trees in calm position, hot even, and gentle breezes resting my body into calmness. I have changed my plans, in that no work on farm for me, coming through Nebraska and Indiana I got enough of the old farm memory come to surface to scare the hell out of me. No, I’m getting too old to work like that anymore, so that instead of working on a farm, [I will get] a job in city, but no money to live there for a while. [I will] get a day laborer’s job out here. May not get that; if not, I’ll stay here to bum a month or 19. Lafcadio Amiel Orlovsky (b. 1938). Peter’s youngest brother. 20. At this point, Peter’s brother Nick was a patient in the Central Islip Psychiatric Center.

26 Chapter One

so, then head back to California. Don’t know if Amiel [Lafcadio] will come with me. He wants to quit school, get job, make money, become rich, eat good, grow eight feet tall. Went to city yesterday, he didn’t want to go, saying “I have no reason to go,” feeling it’s dirty, crowded, and nothing to see there. Yet to leave him here, where his [poor] attitude will grow, eats on my conscience. There is the possibility with the new surroundings in California [things] will change his direction. I am amazed how sensitive his hand touches the face on paper. Sending you his drawings, give me your impression of them. [. . .] I imagine you to be living alone, haunting the house for memories when the rooms were full, busy typing away impressions, reading Bible, or has Jack Kerouac arrived and with the car, where are you flying to? My next trips to the city, will look up your friends, although I have a fear of meeting strangers, isolation here forces me to company. Meantime I’ll take long hikes along beaches on Long Island. Nicky is planning to escape from hospital, says he doesn’t have to account to the doctors about his mental health, so that the only way out is escape. No doubt if he went along with them [. . .] they would let him go, but Nicky feels their adjustment therapy is shit. Plan now is to go see Nicky twice a week for four hours talk, talk and talk about everything, hoping this may change his dogmatic attitude. The way it seems now, me and Lafcadio won’t make it together, there seems to be a wall between us, I’m all on nerves, feel I don’t have the ability in me. [. . .] Miss you Allen, feel lost without your company. Peter [July 16, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Queens, NY, to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: [. . .] In Jamaica [Queens, NY] my nerves are jerking this pen. First time I drank coffee out here. Looking over your list of friends, Elise Cowen21 will be first one I’ll call on. I want to talk with a woman. On subway train, reminds me of rocking cradle, without the noise. Called Lucien [Carr],22 wife answered, forgot to ask about Jack [Kerouac]. Going to see Dusty [Moreland]23 in Queens Plaza. Air thick, sweat sticks to clothes. Not only does this train rock this pen, but my brain also. Good to know you’re writing, noble work. If I can’t find someone to talk with will go to bed. Peter 21. Elise Cowen (1933–1962). A New York friend of Ginsberg’s who was in love with Allen. 22. Lucien Carr (1925–2005). A friend of Ginsberg’s from Columbia College days. At the time he was working for UPI and married to a woman named Cessa. 23. Dusty Moreland. A former girlfriend of Ginsberg’s who was also on intimate terms with Corso and Kerouac.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 27

[July 16, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Northport, NY, to Robert LaVigne]

Holloo Robert: In Long Island after hitching seven days across the nine or so states on Highway U.S. 30. Sleeping in railroad cars, under the stars, waking up damp as the early morning dawns. Luck with rides was fairly good, although never did feel I would get through Wyoming. I baked in the hot sun for hours on end looking at my neighbors, the mountains, doing the same. Staying over in Utah, visiting the Mormons, and hunting the streets for some young girl. The fireworks I saw there grew octopuses of different colors. Passing through the food fields of Nebraska [and] Indiana, changed my mind about working on a farm this summer, age and my lazy bones have shut the door to that. Here, visiting Nicky in hospital, going about to find a job. Into the city to meet Allen’s friends, taking my brother there. [. . .] Outside here, in the back yard on a cheery, evening time, the sun is perched like a big orange among tall thin trees and small green-leaved branches. The cats here own the woods, three baby ones with their mother fighting like child Indians. Cars and their usual sound let us know there is a road nearby that leads to civilization. California is out here, in the evening, from the bay, wind comes to cool the heat away. Write of yourself to me Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: The following excerpt contains the earliest piece of poetry by Peter Orlovsky and for that reason it is included here. Orlovsky also mentions Lafcadio’s obsession with rocket ships and making money, two themes that reappear often in discussions about his brother. [July 17, 1955: excerpt of letter from Peter Orlovsky in Northport, NY, to Allen Ginsberg]

Lafcadio will come with me. Nick may also. Lafcadio has grown strong, wants to quit school, worries about money and food problems, seems to have a fixation on “taking care of my health,” and making money, together with washing clothes, sheets, and body rituals. His mind becomes interested in rocket ships. Hoping living in San Francisco will open up new roads to new countries. I am not a “poor little wandering black doggie,” with “such innocence.” My innocence was robbed or I gave it away when I was a child.

28 Chapter One

On train to Coney Island, I will spend the day there. John [Clellon Holmes]24 said Jack [Kerouac] told him I had a fight with you? I asked for details? Jack has been unheard of. Dusty [Moreland] saw him three weeks ago, after that nothing. John said [Helen] Parker25 is turning into a drunken whore. Coney Island, U.S.A. Young flesh bouncing under tight smooth suits children own the red sand of the beach Old mammas stand by, watchful eye safety of children Children deserve to own their share of the beach, they live with the water as if it were alive Then the wave came, they all jumped, they make noise with the voices of the waves [late July 1955: excerpt of letter from Peter Orlovsky in Northport, NY, to Allen Ginsberg]

And so I just had a Coke. I suppose I’ll be in Frisco for two years, [then] Lafcadio can go his own way at 17 1/2. Keep your eyes open for cheap two or three rooms and kitchen. It will be like setting up home. There’s always the fear I will rush through school books to study my [own] interests, this is what I’ll do if I don’t like the subjects. Want to sleep with Elise [Cowen], she also, but feels it will come to no good. If we go to bed, I’m hot! Her breasts are ripe, her thighs sex my mind up, want to bury my face between her legs, extend tongue and lips into her cunt, while moving my head, and arms, fingers to upper body, and watching her face at the same time. She said she is frigid, but I don’t believe her, too sensitive. Difficulty in touching our skin together, but even that was good, striving for union. It will be a joy to give her a massage and to be given one. Dusty [Moreland] is going steady with Jack [Kerouac], she elaborated on this, no sleep with her, even conversation was cut, partly because of my dry speaking and acting, I felt hurt when I left, but that’s nothing new. There were moments I felt warm, a human look at times came through her eyes.

* * *

24. John Clellon Holmes (1926–1988). Author of Go, widely considered the first Beat novel. 25. Helen Parker. One of Ginsberg’s early girlfriends and the first woman that Allen ever had sex with.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 29

Editor’s Note: While Peter was staying in New York, his brother Nick escaped from the mental hospital and, using Peter’s identification cards, found a job and an apartment. Lafcadio wavered between wanting to go to California with Peter and wanting to remain with his mother in Northport. Peter continued to meet Allen’s friends and continued an affair with Allen’s old girlfriend, Elise Cowen. Then he and Lafcadio decided to take a roundabout way to San Francisco, traveling south through New Orleans and on to Mexico City. They planned to arrive at the Montgomery Street apartment in late August, just in time for school classes to begin. [mid-August 1955: excerpt of letter from Peter Orlovsky in Lake Charles, LA, to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: So many confusing situations have taken place within past week, forgive the not letting you know. It seems I partly lost my “walking” ability, feeling that it’s necessary to feel as nervous as my mother does over the Nicholas situation. [. . .] And now the brother relationship with myself and Lafcadio in California is like worrying about the atom bomb. Hell of a day on road, 250 miles, 150 miles short of Houston Texas, still in Louisiana, Lake Charles, bus depot. Stay over night. Here in cafe, sharing [with] Lafcadio [my] letter to Elise [Cowen]. He said, “I can’t read your hand writing, show me something about me in it. That’s all I want to see.” He won’t let me see what he writes to his mother on a postcard. On road to Mexico City, should be there in three or four [days] at the most. Lafcadio grows in eagerness to go there. We [are] now in army pants, white shirts, will buy hats, both with short brown hair, my eyeglasses on. Twisty thoughts with Lafcadio—Need you Allen, you got the social “touch” Lafcadio needs for outward life. I try myself to do this, I can’t. Your impression on him will come with a bang. It’s only sparks that turn the engine over into life—your expression of humor, your wide-open mouth, stretching to take in and give off laughter, your thinking movements, your Mississippi wideness of experience, your collection of antique thoughts like New Orleans’ hidden alleyways, your activeness in boring things, and the field of poetry you have command of. All have a glowing effect like on peyote. Me he takes too much for granted, but when there is one or two people with us he opens up. I’ll let this set for now. The idea being I would like to see all of us living together, although I fear he will shake all your nerves. Love, Peter

* * *

30 Chapter One

Editor’s Note: Although Peter and Lafcadio originally intended to stop in Mexico City, it appears that they may have gone directly to San Francisco. When Peter arrived back on Montgomery Street at three o’clock one morning with his brother Lafcadio, he threw his arms around Allen at the door. “Sad noble Peter, truly an angel and not my joke boy,” Allen commented in his own journal. Peter had missed Allen nearly as much as Allen had missed Peter, and they cried joyfully to see one another. This was to be only the first of many times that Peter would take care of a family member over the next forty years. Allen had immediately recognized Peter’s large heart and generous nature, and that had made him love Peter all the more. From the very beginning Allen was mindful of Lafcadio’s eccentricities and tried to get used to them. He even worried that the police might pick up Lafcadio and send him to the madhouse. Lafcadio was placed in remedial classes, where he proved to be a poor student. Before long he began cutting class and told Peter that he planned to drop out of school the minute he turned sixteen. Lafcadio was assigned to the eighth grade at San Francisco Junior High School at Chestnut and Powell Streets. There Peter hoped Lafcadio could make use of his artistic talents, but even though he was older than the other students, he needed more supervision. At the end of this optimistic letter Peter comments on his mother’s writing. She had often dreamed of writing a book, but never did. [August 21–22, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] The school Lafcadio will be going to will be fine, its art department is well known, he will be put into the 8th grade until his records are sent to his new school, they will give him aptitude test to I.Q. him. If his intelligence is good he will be put in 9th grade. The social worker there will help him. What you can do is, send me Lafcadio’s report card of last term, they need this at his school, send to me also his drawings, the one he did of you, the cat, etc., in order to give his teachers an idea of his ability. I’ll send to Northport High School for transcript to new school. No word from Nicky, I don’t suppose you have any? [. . .] Elise [Cowen], Allen, and a few other people remarked on your writing. It seems to be an active Kafka-like style. Are you doing any writing, or are things too upset yet? So long for now, love Peter

* * *

San Francisco, 1954–1956 31

Editor’s Note: In August, just before Peter returned from New York with Lafcadio, Allen composed the rough draft of a poem that would change their lives forever. Initially he called it “Strophes,” but he later renamed it “Howl.” Then, on September 3, Ginsberg moved into a small cottage on Milvia Street in Berkeley in order to be closer to his classes at the University of California. Peter, left alone with Lafcadio in the Montgomery Street apartment, began to feel overwhelmed by the task of taking care of his younger brother. [September 12, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Most is calm on this side of the Western Front. Lafcadio goes to school tomorrow, a brown suit, a pressed green shirt, haircut (he wants to comb his hair like mine, why I don’t know), he looks good except for shoes, I haven’t managed to get him a pair, he is wearing his sneakers. I think there is good ground to “demand” Lafcadio be put into 9th grade. The art department will help him tremendously, in that there is going to be a shift in Lafcadio’s attitude about being “prosperous.” I hope I can explain this to you fully. Money means more than gold to Lafcadio, especially the way he feels now, he makes every possible effort to make money fast. He sends out to companies for information on how to [make] money in different kinds of businesses, for example: Dear Sir, I am interested in your article on how I could get up to $1,163 cash in advance orders in a day for imports shipped direct from abroad with no investment in merchandise. Thank you. Sincerely yours, Lafcadio Orlovsky

and so it goes. Now it seems in the end he won’t make no 8 or 10 thousand dollars as he hopes at the end of 10 months, nor will he make a thousand dollars. No, in fact all he will have is the pennies I give him. [. . .] He wants the money not only for himself but for you and the family also, including Julius on his program to help us all. No wonder he feels too pressed for time, and is all excited about money. [. . .] You see, so far he hasn’t shared all his secrets with me. I think there are a couple of walls between us yet (he doesn’t feel I understand him enough to be any help). It’s about now I tell him the business angle of commercial art, elaborating on this to cover his school, telling him at his school he can learn to become a commercial artist. It’s here at this point, between the realization [that] his get rich fast business plans

32 Chapter One

won’t work and the good possibility that commercial art will work is another wall broken down to give him more freedom. I tell him it takes patience to do or be anything good, and that patience is the way of the wise man, he listens, nods his head sadly. School tomorrow! Schooly Schooly wooly, get up, get up sleepy head, jump out of bed, on with your clothes, off to school you go. He has avoided talking about this new school and about school problems, he says he has none. “I’ll get all A’s, all the way through.” This is good if he can do it, except he denies all girlfriends, that is he thinks little outside of his money making ideas, except for rockets, saucers, aeronautics and the like mostly occupy his mind, and except talks on art, people, past memories in Flushing, San Francisco, which we share with one another when we are feeling good. I have difficulty in staying on the same subject for a long period of time, so that sometimes my ideas don’t reach him. Frankly, I haven’t realized my relation with Lafcadio at all, he is a living human, with a face all of his own, he is not like clay, to be shaped into just any form. So far we are learning to live together, it takes time, this month has given some joys as well as some pains, that’s to be expected I suppose—so God says, although I never heard him say so—however the problem lies not in getting over these rainy days, as I have heard you say, I think, but in how well we can understand our problems, as to make good use of them. However enough of this abstract talk. [. . .] How I miss the girls, when I get excited enough I aim to grab some lovely tomato on the street for supper. No word from Nick: he is going through hell’s fight to save himself. No wonder he doesn’t write, think not he lays dead in the Bowery streets with poor rags on and hollow cheek as if he ate the dust of N.Y. City streets. He lives probably in Queens, where green leaves are. I’m studying Prosody, the principles of English meter. [. . .] However, don’t expect any poems from me, not for now. I think if you read Yeats, W.B., you will find him useful. He writes in a way that, because of your experience you might understand him, he writes from living human experience. Except however for one difficulty: in order to get [the] full idea one has to study him more deeply than just his poems, he wrote essays for this. I suggest him because, one, it was only toward the end of his life did he write his best. He used a system (of symbols) and then it seems what you need also is a history, in your mind, if the contemporary writers [like] William Carlos Williams may help you his book of essays by New Directions, a thick book on development of contemporary writing. Good night for now, love Peter

San Francisco, 1954–1956 33

[October 11, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: All tied up in school work, good marks together with poor marks, study more. Lafcadio is beginning [to see that] his money plans are not going to work. In four weeks more he will know. He also is beginning to see it takes more than words to get A’s in school. The next step he may take, is “Marks or A’s aren’t necessary in school.” He has difficulty studying. Fantasy thinking is his specialty, it prevents him studying, he fights his problems out in his mind, sometimes I turn to look, see him whispering, then a blow of his fist comes down on the chair similar to the blows exchanged in his drawings you know so well. I tell him what I learn in school, he’s interested. I’m going to psychiatrist. Lafcadio asks, “I’d like to go.” My doctor says, “sure bring him, it would be good for him.” So that may be it, it’s possible he may be able to [find] a doctor for himself. If the doctor’s good it can be like the hand of Jesus shaking hands with Lafcadio, a symbol of human friendship, I can only give him Peter’s friendship, not Jesus’ friendship. Well, you know a psychiatrist is not that good, but one who establishes friendship with Lafcadio will do him a lot of good. We plan to go today. Why don’t you go to one?? We have sex talks. Lafcadio’s shy at times. He keeps me from knowing his girl interest, or won’t come externally in talk about girls, sex, etc. He says he told you, but you didn’t want to go into it too much. Yes sir, I feel like a father at 22. Just got home from school, that’s where I began this letter. Hear from you soon Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Two days later, on October 13, 1955, Allen Ginsberg and fellow poets Michael McClure,26 Gary Snyder,27 Philip Whalen,28 Philip Lamantia,29 and Kenneth Rexroth30 took part in the Six Gallery Poetry Reading. It was the first time many of the poets had read in public, and it proved to be the seminal event in the creation of the San Francisco Renaissance. Peter Orlovsky attended but makes no note of it in his journal. 26. Michael McClure (b. 1932). Poet and playwright, author of Dark Brown. 27. Gary Snyder (b. 1930). Poet and author of Riprap. 28. Philip Whalen (1923–2002). Poet and author of Scenes of Life at the Capital. 29. Philip Lamantia (1927–2005). Poet and author of Ekstasis. 30. Kenneth Rexroth (1905–1982). Poet and critic, author of Assays.

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[October 19, 1955: journal]

We, Allen and myself, went over to Natalie’s [Jackson]. Allen starts to read Walt Whitman, I reacted by being blank to the words, felt I had to respond one way or another, instead I should of said, “I’m in no mood for Walt Whitman—read to yourself.” I’ll say [that] next time. [November 9, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

[Dear Kate:] Keep delaying this letter, partly because [my] decision to become a writer has my mind turning wheels in another direction. A funny decision on my part—writing seems like a beautiful escape into the world of experience, of people’s thoughts, feelings, actions, gestures, etc. A famous painter came to [our] house yesterday. He was looking for drug called peyote, an Indian drug, makes one extremely sensitive to objects in space, colors and surfaces of objects. [. . .] May go down to Mexico or to N.Y. depending on how much money can be gotten this spring. Stay home these days, study, need B average to transfer to other school. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: On December 1, 1955, with Allen still living in his little cottage in Berkeley, Peter and Lafcadio moved into an apartment at 442 Bay Street in San Francisco. Although it was cheaper and had more room, they immediately began to experience problems. First the water heater broke, and then the ceiling began to leak, making one of the rooms uninhabitable. The landlord was slow to make repairs, and before long they began to look for another apartment. [December 15, 1955: journal]

More self-doubt these past few days. Nothing like doubt, it cleans the soul, eats up excess fat. Doubt can be enjoyed. [. . .] I’ve never thought myself so mad before—Allen says it all the time now. “How can you be so stupid?” referring to my blankness. I yell at Lafcadio what Allen yells at me. But the thing is my memory is falling to hell, I move unnecessarily about, can’t think along a line of thought without going off, ah shit this fucking world is painful, the people are all the same—crying in their sleep.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 35

A more complete study of the human soul, all books concerned with the human soul are my delight, is my dream, is me. Neal [Cassady]31 read Spengler.32 I didn’t realize how much he read of him, for he now talks to a large extent like him. Neal’s ability to come back to an unfinished sentence and to continue it is seen in Spengler. Must ask Neal about Spengler, who else did he read? Now he reads [Edgar] Cayce33 about this reincarnation business. I also like Spengler. Thought how beautiful it would be to cut a term of school out substituting it for Spengler, he absorbs me that much. [. . .] Robert LaVigne was by [and] Lafcadio said how he noticed Robert and I had a dislike for each other. He used the word “cold.” “There was coldness between you two,” he said, then he asked what was it? He was surprised at this coldness, for he thought Robert was my best friend judging from the letters I wrote him a year ago.

* * * Editor’s Note: In the following letter, Peter complains to his mother about a number of things and points out some of the mistakes he believes she made in raising her family. Kate did not trust psychiatrists, but Peter continues to tell her that he believes this might be the only way to help Lafcadio. This letter also reveals the extremely open relationship that Peter has with his family about sex. [December 28, 1955: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Sitting alone here in kitchen, hi-fi on, music by Schubert plays, Lafcadio is off to library, he must make it there before books become overdue, popular mechanics books. [. . .] There is a change though [in the apartment], the third room, the one I use is on the blink, as you would say, because of a downpour of rain from free-giving heaven. Huge parts of California have been flood damaged, including my room, which because of the poor building of the ceiling, water leaked through for three days causing the whole room to be turned into a damp, rheumatic, cough chest cold giving [room], so that it became necessary to move the junk of the second room into the third and transfer clothes, which were by 31. Neal Cassady (1926–1968). Jack Kerouac’s muse and friend to Ginsberg and other Beats. Author of The First Third. 32. Oswald Spengler’s book The Decline of the West was an important topic of conversation with the writers in the group. 33. Both Neal Cassady and his wife, Carolyn, became followers of the American psychic Edgar Cayce.

36 Chapter One

now moldy, into the junk room; the junk room is actually more sunny than the other. My God how the rain came, all got wet together—the rich and the poor. It rained for seven or eight days here you know, in fact your letter got wet from some of the Christmas water. And it was during that week I worked for the post office, driving a truck, ringing people’s door bells. I would place it into their hands, I felt many big smiles, and “Oh, thank yous!” for Christmas. There’s a funny delight people have when given something unexpectedly. [. . .] So I worked and worked in all that free rain to all them Christmas tree houses on all them roly-poly hills of San Francisco on that one week before Christmas, and no sickness resulted, surprisingly enough. I should make a little over $125.00. I owe $50 in bills and plan to buy Lafcadio $10 worth of clothes, from an exceptionally cheap, good, second-hand clothes store and hope in a week or so to send you typewriter typed letters. Pardon me a moment, to continue this letter calls for more spirit, and that spirit comes from wine (20% proof) from a wine bottle in my closet. I call wine the “Blessed Mary Virgin of the Soul.” I’ve got yellow wine here, it’s not far from looking like piss water but what a difference. Anyway if you want some money write and ask me. [. . .] There’s much to tell you about Lafcadio. It’s mostly not good news. His school work is poor, poor to the extent he might be left back this term. His preoccupation with get-rich ideas fully occupied his mind to the point of almost forgetting about school work. [. . .] He now wants to get a part-time job (tomorrow he plans to go down to state employment office to demand a job for his hungry stomach). Allen has been a good outside influence for Lafcadio, they talk together, and they talk to a point where Lafcadio puts much faith in him and release of inner feelings, than to me. Allen directs his talk with Lafcadio like a good warm-hearted elderly brother. The sad problem is Lafcadio’s school failure, but even that wouldn’t be so bad if only he had some friends to play with, friends which are so important at this age of life, because Lafcadio has had no friend. He essentially sees no value to be obtained with friends—that’s the harm living up there in your chicken coop did for the young soul. Isolation at important periods of growth can be compared to amputation of some part of your body. Lafcadio had an I.Q. test just recently—the score was something like 80, 20 points below average. There are a number of things for me to do to help Lafcadio, one is to give him a secure, clean home with regular meals, this will take care of his food worry. One of the mistakes it seems to me you made with Lafcadio is that you laid on him far too much responsibility for his tender age, no youngster in America is prepared for that, hence this money get rich fantasy. The same thing with Julius, only Julius took to developing his muscles and not his money problems like Lafcadio, to fight against Oleg (symbolically speaking here of course).

San Francisco, 1954–1956 37

There is a child guidance center, a place where Lafcadio may be going to a psychiatrist, like me. What the outcome will be, I know not, nothing is to be lost, but much to be gained from going to one. So, on January 3rd I go to see and talk with the female social psychiatrist there for an interview, giving her background material and find out what plans or approach we can make with Lafcadio to channel or direct his mind into a more self-creative use. At one time I thought I alone could save Lafcadio and help him to better himself, now I see the folly I had in thinking this. I, at one time, had fantasies of being a Jesus Christ-like person coming to save needy people. A few nights ago when we went to the movies we stopped off to see these two young virgins whom I know from the poetry readings. Anyway, I thought it would be good for Lafcadio, so we stopped over to drink wine and talk awhile. Lafcadio at one point in the conversation wrote on a paper to me asking, “Do you want to have sex with her? She is very pretty, she looks like Marie,34 I like her,” and so on. I wish I had the slip of paper, you would be amused to see it. I never was so sexually mature at 15 as he is. It was a few days before that when we, at Christmastime it was, went to Los Gatos to Neal [Cassady’s] house, a 20 thousand dollar house, over 60 miles from here. A friend of Allen’s, he is like Napoleon in a way with extreme psychiatric super-intelligence. [He lives with] his wife, (he’s been married 3 times) and two girls and one boy. A Christmas treat although Lafcadio spoke little, but looked at television. Nevertheless, the idea of going outward to live is good, and while just a day before that we all, Lafcadio, myself, Allen, and his two Buddhist friends ate big Chinese meal in Chinatown. All in all, Lafcadio has grown better in terms of helping him later in life. There’s more to be done, yet on the whole you could see a change for the better in him if you saw him now. [. . .] My other plans are to work some more, for me and Lafcadio to see Mexico the last month in summer vacation. We will see what the summer brings! I say good night for now dear mother, if it weren’t for these other letters I have to write I would elaborate at length more. Love Peter

1956 Editor’s Note: By this time, Allen Ginsberg had quit his classes at the University of California in order to devote himself completely to poetry. In January he took off for a few weeks and went hiking in the Pacific 34. Marie Orlovsky (b. 1938). Peter’s only sister and Lafcadio’s twin.

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Northwest with Gary Snyder, where they stopped to give a reading at Snyder’s alma mater, Reed College. Due to problems with the Bay Street apartment, Peter and Lafcadio were forced to move again in February, this time to a public housing unit at 5 Turner Terrace on Potrero Hill. At the very end of this letter Peter tells his mother that Allen’s poem “Howl” is going to be published. Howl and Other Poems was issued in 1956 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti as the fourth book in City Lights’ Pocket Poets Series. [February 21, 1956: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Excuse the delay, things are in a thorny position here, moving to this new place, a three room all furnished, ice box and all, situated on a hill, a view to look over. It’s the housing authority’s project. Finally got it and will be here for the next five months. Lafcadio has changed schools, the new one, called Everett High School is in many ways better than the other school: larger, more students, teachers seem better, etc. Looking out the window here typing this letter, can see the leg of San Francisco Bay, ships all over the body of water and the range of mountains on the other side, the mountains one climbs when heading for the east. Lafcadio is in the kitchen cooking breakfast, eggs smell good with bacon. The place here is completely new, a year old, two beds, a room of our own and a kitchen. Nice set up. Other developments are that finally a psychiatrist will be able to see Lafcadio at the same place I go, the Veterans Administration. They don’t usually do this, it’s only the wife of a veteran that they would see. This is happening at a good time. Lafcadio has not been going to school regularly the last two weeks, this caused the state authorities to look into the matter, and after we had a talk they decided to let Lafcadio continue with me, but only so long as he keeps regular school attendance. I don’t like it when you tell Lafcadio that he can quit school when he gets [to be] sixteen. I only hope these problems can be worked over with his new doctor. For the next six months he can see and talk with him. I think there is much that can be done to straighten out some of the twisted thoughts Lafcadio has. I know you have only bad associations with mind doctors in the past, and now you may dislike the idea of Lafcadio going to one. I ask you to believe me and my experiences with my doctor and not judge too hastily [about] Lafcadio going to psychiatrists. Allen just came back from hiking up in Oregon and near Canada. He gave a reading of his poetry there, many were excited by his poems. Some old ladies walked out—it was too much for them. He was close to Vancouver, Canada, and saw the Indians dressed funny looking in

San Francisco, 1954–1956 39

all different strange clothes. A long poem called Howl is going to be published. When it is, I’ll send you a copy. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: On March 18, 1956, Allen Ginsberg and the other poets who had participated in the Six Gallery reading the previous October staged a similar event at Berkeley’s Town Hall Theater. Peter attended this reading with a blind date, Ann Charters,35 who he refers to in the following letter as a “mystical nineteen-year-old girl.” Charters was a student at the University of California between 1953 and 1957 and at the time of her date with Peter had no idea that she would become one of the most prominent scholars to be associated with the writers of the Beat Generation and the author of the first biography about Jack Kerouac. [March 21, 1956: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Hello there Old Mama heart, here’s a note of sweetness. In the kitchen here, pork chops with seasoning about to be cooked, beets beating away going to make them creamy, adding sugar, makes them sweet. Just made a chocolate cake, fudge icing on top of it, it’s to get Lafcadio prepared for his birthday. I’ve been feeling extremely good, so good that living doesn’t seem like a big negative problem as it did before. There’s a big blue eyed mystical looking, nineteen year old girl here who likes me and I her, so the world’s a little bit like heaven now. (Just had to add water to the beets). She goes to California University, English major, studying Thomas Hardy right now. Lafcadio ain’t here yet, it’s six PM, probably at the library, lost on the moon somewhere, and he won’t be home until an hour or so. The school problem this time is not as bad as last, now he has a “C” average, but still he, at times, doesn’t do his homework, nor take tests. Allen has given me some good ideas on how to handle this. And since I’ve been feeling so good, there’s not as much conflict as before, [like] my getting mad at him over little things. [. . .] Allen did great in that reading of his poetry last Sunday. The audience response was overwhelming, people call him an ANGEL when they see him on the street now. As soon as his book comes out [Howl 35. Ann Charters (b. 1936). Scholar and author of Kerouac: A Biography.

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and Other Poems], I’ll send you a copy. You can keep that drawing of me by Laff although it would be good to have it to show some artists and ask them what they think of it when me and Laff go walking around to meet them. I’m doing a big study on dreams for psychology class, so send me your dreams there mama as soon as you can, Marie, you also, please. I’ll write you more if you do. Dreams. dreams, dreams, dreams is what I want now. Love, Peter [ca. April 1956: journal]

Allen must be going through a strange experience, he seems so humble. He said he feels like a monster, “people just poke their face closer to hear what I say, when really I am just saying nothing of importance.” [April 6, 1956: journal]

I can’t yet walk into myself, this school life ties me down. There must be a way, there is, take on both and see what happens, see what happens! An over care of what I am doing, making sure I am doing right, always puts me in the worry bed of feelings. All this [is a] useless waste of my output. Students in front of me asking to talk, yet all I do is sit down here, keeping my head down to look at this paper, too far removed from it all, I am alone, alone, not having a place in it for me. My stupid idea of good life, the incompleteness of it all. The not having a girlfriend, the loneliness of it all, leaves me alone, alone in this world, the world alone in itself, in itself alone. I am here alone in the cafeteria, alone writing of loneliness, I go off alone to the world. I ask Kate not to let me call her Kate any more. I want to look at her different. I don’t want to treat her as my mother. I want to look as I never did before at her. I hope she likes it. [April 11, 1956, Wednesday: journal]

At evening supper talk with Laff. He tells me about his plans for getting girls. Tonight took two beers at Vesuvio’s. Free beers! I’m at this poetry class at State College, there are sixteen people and poets here, [we sit at] a round table. The voice I hear now is the teacher Lowenthal.36 “I write by ear, then scan, then patch up,” says Mary, a 35-year-old mother next to me. She has a nice velvet tight dress. 36. Leo Lowenthal (1900–1993). A faculty member at the University of California, who would later testify in defense of City Lights at the famous Howl trial.

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Lafcadio and Peter Orlovsky in their kitchen at 5 Turner Terrace, 1956, San Francisco. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

[May 11, 1956: journal]

I myself am wandering up and down the milky way for I’ve lost my soul in hell somehow.

* * * Editor’s Note: As the school year drew to a close, Peter began to make plans for the following year. At the time his plans did not include Ginsberg, who, although he was spending his weekends with Peter in San Francisco, was still living in Berkeley. Orlovsky continued to dream of girls but remained too shy to act. He begins to note his frequency of masturbation, a habit that he continues to mention in his journals for much of his life. [ca. mid-May, 1956: journal]

I think I’m going to quit school, get a job this summer, then go back to Northport and work half the year in the Veterans Mental Hospital with good salary, see the folks at home, see Marie, see Nicky. Lafcadio will come back with me. I hope he will go to Northport High School in the fall with Marie. The two of them will do good together in school. [I will be] free from that goddamn school routine for a while. I’ve become

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more impulsive these last few months than ever before. I’m all tied up, can’t unbundle myself. All the young chicks at my school, I’m about to burst out into a demon and attack three at a time. Any day now, I’ll go and start raping them, they are oh, so gorgeous—such skin, such rabbit-like aliveness, such asses. All my life I’ve had no girlfriend, it ain’t my luck. My mind collapses when I get to know a girl so that I can’t continue knowing her. These last few days I’ve talked to more girls than in months, yes, but they’re just casual followers, and no sooner do I see them do I forget them and it builds up a thirst for more, which makes me more nervous than ever. Didn’t masturbate last night, but the night before I did. And the day before that I did three times.

* * * Editor’s Note: Sadly, Peter never really had many friends of his own, and as time went by most of his acquaintances seemed to be Allen’s friends. For a while Henry Schlachler remained one of Orlovsky’s few friends from the period before he met Ginsberg, and Peter wrote to Henry occasionally. In this letter Orlovsky touches on many things, including an inflated boast about all the girls in his life and his plans to move back to New York with his brother. He also mentions Allen’s trip to Alaska with the Merchant Marines and various parties he went to with Jack Kerouac and Philip Whalen, as well as conversations he had with Neal Cassady. [May 16, 1956: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Henry Schlachler]

Dear Henry, Excuse the delay, too many girls in my way these days, you know. Lots of things happening here. Spring all around, today is hot. Lafcadio is in school with Allen’s camera taking pictures. He’s doing good. No longer thinks about rocket to the moon. He wants to study philosophy: this shows the great shift of fantasy life to real concrete life. He’s dressing up slick for the girls in his school. Allen is going to work on a ship headed for Alaska, $400 per month, by winter he plans to be in Europe. His poetry is doing good, the Times will give him big write up. He’s blossoming and on his way to the library shelves and from there into the souls of young searching minds. My plans have changed. Lafcadio and I will work here until the end of summer, then we both will hitchhike back to Long Island. Laff will go back to school, I’ll work and live there—see my mother, my father, I don’t know. This damn school here is on my nerves. Too much, the loss of freedom, the restrictiveness of school.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 43

[Kenneth] Rexroth’s wife37 is about to leave him and go with some young poet [Robert Creeley]38 who just came into town, he’s all in tears. Big party last Saturday. Jack Kerouac, Allen, me, and Phil Whalen were in Berkeley going from party to party, ride to ride, scene to scene, for three days straight. It left me so confused, yet relaxed, that I don’t and can’t think about school work as I am supposed to. The Cellar39 has a jazz session Sunday. Cool jazz. Me and Lafcadio plan to go to a rock an’ roll session in Fillmore come next Saturday. Read Walt Whitman, his poetry is good. Read 100 pages at a time, get the drift of it, it can be like talking to a good psychiatrist. Neal [Cassady] and me have been having long talks on reincarnation. Hope to hear from you soon. Your friend Peter [June 29, 1956: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] I have been working this past week [as] an ambulance attendant again, $275 month, 40 hours a week. It’s easy work, can read all the time, the only thing I don’t like about [it] is the five other hired help, oddly enough they’re a bunch of homosexuals, the kind that are cheap imitations of the feminine beauty, a bunch of colorless empty souls. On top of this there’s an old seventy-year-old Jew lady that owns the business, that’s always after you. Fuck her, I say. I keep away from her. And Laff also is working, yes that’s what I said, working. In fact he was working four days before school closed. The job is as a messenger, $40 a week, using the bike I got him for Christmas. All day he goes around, sometimes with a bundle or a pack of letters or a tube of paper, on his bike, through the crowded tall and short buildings and people [on the] street for a few blocks, then off the bike up an elevator to an office, or sometimes he goes to a factory, where there are Spanish girls working at typewriters, and delivers the paper. Now that he’s been working for three weeks he’s on the lookout for another job, a better paying job, which he might get as an elevator operator at $65 a week. He got paid today, his money goes in a ruby-colored wallet that we bought in a second hand store for a dime. I had my wallet that was in 37. Kenneth Rexroth and his wife Marthe Larsen were early supporters of the Beat writers and hosted a weekly literary salon in San Francisco that many attended. Marthe ran off with Robert Creeley at one point but returned to Rexroth before long. 38. Robert Creeley (1926–2005). Poet associated with both the Beat Generation and the Black Mountain School. Author of Le Fou. 39. The Cellar was an underground jazz nightclub at 576 Green Street in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood. It hosted a series of poetry and jazz nights that featured Kenneth Rexroth and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, among others.

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my coat lying beside me in the movie that was stolen, only four dollars stolen but the identification papers are what counts. I am asking you to write my draft board in Port Jefferson, Long Island. Ask them to send you another one saying I lost mine, to you, and then you send it to me. Thanks sweet old girl. [. . .] Love Peter [July 7, 1956: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Allen Ginsberg on board the USNS Pendleton in Alaska]

Dear Allen: [. . .] I’ve been walking the streets lately and now back to reading again, finally got the biography of Apollinaire,40 he’s a sweet fellow, reminds me of you. No see Neal [Cassady], no dreams. No girls. No tea [marijuana]. Talks with Laff. [. . .] Laff looks for job. He bought a big box of oatmeal, plans to live cheaply. Every day I see nice people here and there. Read on, look at the sea—spit into it, cry into it, and after you tell yourself about it, write me about it, or just send a word or two saying “I love you.” Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: By the end of the summer it had been decided that Lafcadio would go back to Northport alone and finish high school there with his twin sister Marie. Allen was still on an extended voyage to the Arctic Circle with the Merchant Marines, earning money for a trip to Europe that he wanted to take. Peter remained in San Francisco, where his immediate circle grew to include many of Allen’s friends and fellow poets. At this time Allen was eagerly awaiting the arrival of copies of his first book of poetry, Howl and Other Poems, which Lawrence Ferlinghetti was publishing. In the following letter Orlovsky also makes note of a story that Gregory Corso frequently told about serving two and a half years in prison for a bungled robbery of a Friendly Finance office involving walkie-talkies and accomplices. In reality Corso spent that time in jail after he was caught stealing a jacket. 40. Apollinaire by Marcel Adéma (Grove Press, 1955).

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[August 13–19, 1956: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Allen Ginsberg on board the USNS Pendleton in Alaska]

No dreams lately. Haven’t been writing like I said I would, instead reading. Celine The Crippled Giant,41 Edgar Cayce The Miracle Man,42 [Fyodor] Dostoyevsky The Idiot, [Henry] Miller A Devil in Paradise, Rimbaud by [Wallace] Fowlie and Rimbaud’s Poems. I hope when Laff goes back by bus, to get typing on my notes. You know it’s the girl life that I have had enough of that gets in my way, it’s a shame I can’t do my writing in spite of no girl friends. It takes real forcing of one’s self and to do that you need a stimulus. I have been trying to get that stimulus by going to North Beach and talking with as many people [as] I can in a night. That helps a lot and then when I go home [. . .] to bed, I lay talking to myself an hour before I get to sleep, and I wake up in the morning and feel good. Your copies [of Howl and Other Poems] haven’t arrived. Saw Ferlinghetti about it. It might be better for people like McClure, Corso,43 Rexroth to pick up their copies themselves, you can see why. But the others I’ll send to. Good news about Gary Snyder. There’s a famous teacher, working with him. Gary takes care of him like a nurse, for the old teacher is weak. Everything the master says he must do even if he says “clean ash tray cup fifty times a day.” I also haven’t been masturbating. Fuck you up there, you are restoring your fantasy life 100%. I’m a nervous wreck. All I know about girls is those on the street. That’s all I do is look at them on the street. I’m getting to the point where it’s going to be necessary to do what your brother Eugene [Brooks]44 did: go up and talk to them all, talk to all you see. [. . .] Glad to hear you may be back in three or four weeks. Everyone [will be] glad to see you here. I am amazed at how many people like and love you and want to speak to you. There’s enough room on your road for you to travel with a lot of people. Neal [Cassady] just came by. Blue tea shirt, blue jeans, he just said to tell you he can’t write, but to say everything’s all right, same old shit, nothing new. May see Neal tomorrow, he plans to see that telephone operator. I’ll use his old grey brakeless coupe to move my clothes and books. [. . .] Me and Laff were alone here for the whole past month, I reading Dostoevsky, Rimbaud, Celine, and crying because I feel lonely, 41. A reference to a biography about Louis-Ferdinand Céline by Milton Hindus called The Crippled Giant (Boar’s Head Books, 1950). 42. Probably a reference to an article about Edgar Cayce called “Miracle Man of Virginia Beach” that was originally published in 1943 in Coronet magazine. 43. Gregory Corso (1930–2001). Poet and author of Gasoline and Other Poems. 44. Eugene Brooks (1921–2001). Lawyer, poet, and brother of Allen Ginsberg.

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writing little, on nerves, but strangely enough, long talks with Lafcadio about everything we can think of. [. . .] [letter continued: Tuesday, August 14, 1956]

I’ve been reading [Arthur] Rimbaud, we ought to go around together, like Rimbaud and [Paul] Verlaine friends. It takes two minds together to straddle the sun under our saddle and ride through space and time to the stars of human workings. Gregory [Corso] says, “What is needed is keep friendships like Rimbaud and Verlaine in this world, then things would start to happen.” He said he wrote you, told me so at the party Laff and I went to Saturday, he was there with that good looking girl we know. Read that poem Corso wrote, funny, some meaty lines and those descriptions—“Rat face sunshine.” I had a two hour talk with him last Thursday, surprised to hear at sixteen he was robbing 21 thousand dollars, and the 2½ years in jail is on his face and appearance but partly covered up by his funny child-like joking. [letter continued: Thursday, August 16, 1956]

Much going on here. Saw Neal last night—he said to tell you, he read how you are tied up there in Icy Cape, but the ice is breaking through. [. . .] He’s OK. He brought some girls over. Laff tries to watch what’s going on. . . Neal and I talked, God what a talker he is. He’s got all kinds of speed control in his mind. [. . .] [letter continued: Friday, August 17, 1956]

Saw only the shadow part of Creeley, he laughed to hear you are surrounded by ice with 40 other ships. No sooner was he here did he leave with a heavy solid built rich girl who’s taking him to Mexico. Your letters seem to show you know, are aware of understanding what is in the universe. [Henry] Miller is like that, Apollinaire also. Your Siesta in Mexico45 is self-revealing, it’s part of your self naked on the “blank white light” showing yourself to who ever will look open the pages to read. [. . .] [letter continued: Sunday, August 19, 1956]

At work on ambulance job. Saw Neal last night, went to Las Gatos46 with him. We talk about Cayce, we all bought books about Edgar Cayce 45. The poem he refers to is “Siesta in Xbalba,” which appears on pages 105–118 of Ginsberg’s Collected Poems (2006). 46. Neal and Carolyn Cassady lived in a house at 18231 Bancroft Avenue in Los Gatos, just south of San Jose.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 47

“The Man Who Does Miracles.” Neal got the book the same day and was finished reading it by 6:00 P.M. It was a sad day for all of us because there were no girls, and we weren’t too much interested in getting all excited by talking. So there I was in The Cellar, I came in with Ferlinghetti, we were talking for three hours in the sandwich shop. There in The Cellar, the music blasting loud, rock and roll type excitement music, was Rexroth, Marthe who looks 5 years older since I last saw her, her bones, cheek ones much more pronounced, troubled-looking face. Michael McClure there behind Rexroth. McClure got a book of poems published about shit.47 Bob Donlin48 was there, we were digging the music. The silent drummer who sits there playing with tilted head and eyes rolled up toward heaven, who every so often gets something in his head and it comes out through the beat sticks, a loud bumpty bump bump noise that rocks the foundation off of the other players to the point where they have to stop and let the drummer play until he runs out and quiets down again.

* * * Editor’s Note: In the fall, instead of returning directly to Northport, Lafcadio stayed in San Francisco with Peter. In November a whole group decided to go back east by way of Mexico City. Peter, Lafcadio, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso, and Allen Ginsberg all took a bus across Mexico to arrive at 212 Orizaba Street, the apartment where William S. Burroughs49 had once lived. The building was now occupied by another friend, and for a few weeks they all stayed together, enjoying the exotic atmosphere of Mexico. Under the tutelage of Kerouac and Ginsberg, Orlovsky makes his first mention of Buddhism, a practice that he would adopt in the future. [November 14, 1956, Wednesday: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Mexico City to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Here at 212 Orizaba since Monday and what a great three days it has been. Here we all live out of the same apartment, three rooms, beds that sag in the middle, and children that run in and out of the doors. I was out late last night with Jack K. [Kerouac] down to where the sad people of Mexico go at night. I am amazed at how many people there are here sick looking, lonely, poor, diseased, dressed in clothes that coal comes in, broken legged, little barefoot children selling gum at midnight. 47. McClure’s book Passage was published in 1956 by Jonathan Williams. 48. Bob Donlin (1924–1996). Appears as Rob Donnelly in Kerouac’s Desolation Angels. 49. William S. Burroughs (1914–1997). Writer and author of Naked Lunch.

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Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and Peter Orlovsky with Gregory Corso and Lafcadio Orlovsky kneeling in Alameda Park, November 1956, Mexico City. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

San Francisco, 1954–1956 49

All we can do is give them 20 cent tacos and perhaps joke with them. Lafcadio yesterday sent you a letter, he’s more on the ball writing to you than I am. He will change a lot in these next two weeks we plan to be here, we’ll all be together most of the time, so that everybody talks to everybody. Just think of that, two members of the Orlovsky family living in Mexico City. What’s Oleg going to say to that? I’ll tell you all about the trip, no tourists went the way we went to get into Mexico City. It’s a big story in itself that will dazzle you and Marie when we both come to tell you. The food is good, cheap, and plentiful, if you have money, which we have. The American dollar is worth 12 and a half pesos, which means Americans get 12 times as much for their money as Mexicans, which means Lafcadio can eat not only all he wants but anything he wants. The only thing is that clothes imported from the States are expensive, while Mexican clothes are poorly made, except for things that are made with good quality. Today Lafcadio and Gregory went to a famous park here [Chapultepec Park]. It has everything in it, streams with boats sliding. All families go and the children play funny games. As it stands now, by the end of November, we should be home to have a big meeting with you and Marie. Lafcadio is making his own plans of getting a job and I think he would like to live with Nicky, which would be a good thing if possible. If you have had any word from Nicky please send it, write him, let him know where we are. There are many good things about Mexico City that would interest Nicky. They are: 1. Entering a new world, people are different in many ways, buildings, old temples, bigger and better made parks, new sights abound! 2. Extremely cheaper than anywhere in New York or any part of the U.S. 3. The people are extremely friendly and interested in Americans— that is Americans like us who are on their economic level and dress level. A surprise for you, I have been reading Zen Buddhism. There are many great truths in it. I don’t have time to go into it now, just wanted you to know about it. Perhaps you can get a book at Northport Library on it. Are you doing any reading? If not, are you working? or writing? Love Peter

* * *

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Editor’s Note: While in Mexico City, Peter had the urge to write, but he found that he was just too busy to sit down with pen and paper. One thing he and Kerouac did was to visit the cheap prostitutes on Panama Street, where he and Jack were able to indulge themselves for a few pesos. [November 21, 1956: journal]

Here in Kuku restaurant with Lafcadio next to me, Jack next to Lafcadio, Allen next to me, and Gregory next to Allen, who just showed me his (Gregory’s) drawing of Byzantium. I look at it and say—it moves. Two concentrated weeks in Mexico. Beginning [to feel I should] write. 1:00 AM: Jack, Allen, and me, just came back from Panama Street. [Girl] had young, nice body, just right. Tight cunt, and round ass that came out. I grabbed that part of her when on her and about to come. Last two days were rough. About to go to bed now. Picked wrong time to write. I won’t be writing as much as I thought I would here in Mexico. Hardly spend any time alone.

* * * Editor’s Note: Back in New York, Jack, Allen, Lafcadio, and Peter stayed in Greenwich Village with their friends Helen Weaver and Helen Elliott. Kerouac described their visit with the girls in his book Desolation Angels. From there, Peter and Lafcadio went to Northport to visit their family. After a short stay, Nick, the oldest of the siblings, drove Peter back into the city to look for an apartment. Before long Peter and Allen made plans to visit Burroughs in Morocco and then tour Europe together. As soon as Peter was settled in the city he wrote to his mother in Northport. By this time Lafcadio was in the hospital being treated for a hernia and Peter was making plans to have their remaining brother, Julius, released from the mental hospital where he had already spent several years. [December 18, 1956, Wednesday: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Me and Nick rolled along, down the hill road, on to highway, through Huntington, and before I knew it there was New York. How strange and different Nick looks, dressed the way he does; he looks like Benny Goodman, the newspaper man Nick worked for in Bayside [Queens], with that leather cap and all. I love Nick. [. . .]

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Peter Orlovsky, passport photo, December 19, 1956. Peter wrote on the back of this photograph, “I looked into camera, trying to see the future before me, wanting the future to come straight out of my eyes. I wanted to move the soul of my face into a smiling light, but the picture man said it’s best to remain serious.” Photo Courtesy of the Peter Orlovsky Archive, University of Texas.

It’s a warm day in New York today. I slept over Elise Cowen’s apartment last night. Out her back window I saw a tall skyscraper, all white building, she told me it was a mental hospital, it looked like a big streak of lightning standing still on earth. She’s in good spirits, working for an encyclopedia company, cut her hair short like a tomboy. I threw my arms around her and kissed her, oh, it was good to see her again. We talk so much, talk running out of our ears even. She’s going to a psychoanalyst, Reichian type, where you lay down on a couch naked, except for her black underpanties, while the doctor, most of them have a touch of madness, sits at your side, talks to you and tries to make you cry, laugh, scream or yell. I may stay over at her place for awhile. Yesterday me, Allen, and Jack [Kerouac] went to get our passports, here’s photo, such anxious eyes, I love people that’s why I open my eyes so. Let Marie put this in her black collective picture book. I am going to talk with Allen’s brother [Eugene Brooks], who is a lawyer, about Julius, as to what conditions have to be met for him to be released into Nicky’s hands. This problem about Julius is only in the thinking. When I see you we can talk of it. I’ll bring home some more wine, and tell stories to each other. See you on the hill soon, the days are warm rare days. Love with love Peter

2

e

Morocco and Europe, 1957 Editor’s Note: At the beginning of 1957 the Orlovsky family was going through some radical changes. Nick Orlovsky had decided to help Julius escape from his mental hospital, Lafcadio was living with his mother and recovering from a hernia operation, and Peter was enjoying sex with a steady girlfriend, a close friend of Elise Cowen’s named Carol Heller. Peter was looking forward to his first trip to Europe, and things in his life seemed to be improving. [February 1, 1957: journal]

Now Julius is to get out of hospital. Lafcadio calls me up on phone from Northport, he has a job as stock boy. I’m in bed with Carol [Heller] feeling hot and calm and happy we were together all night, walking across Central Park in six inches of snow and then six inches in Carol that night. Laff says Nick is going to get Julius out in the evening, “see if you can stop him,” he says. I tell him the snow may get Nick’s car stuck. [. . .] [February 2, 1957: draft of letter to Ron Loewinsohn1 from journal]

Excuse delay have been doing many things at once, now I’m working as messenger, living at girlfriend’s apartment. Things are OK, will be leaving for Europe with Allen and Jack—on or about February 20. All of us got passports. [. . .] It was a good idea to send that poem to me as you did in last letter. I showed them to Allen, he liked the first one. He has the poems in his black poetry book, which he takes around to show 1. Ron Loewinsohn (b. 1937). California poet. Allen Ginsberg wrote an introduction to his first book, Watermelons, published in 1959 by the Totem Press.

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all different kinds of people. We were all over Allen’s parents’ home in New Jersey (Jack, Allen, Gregory [Corso], me) so everybody typed up poems of theirs and yours. The first poem of yours—“Melons”? So you may hear word from them. I’m really sorry for not writing before, I get carried away and mixed up—and did so, in New York—I’ve got so many hellish feelings here—they have piled up over the last 20 years.

* * * Editor’s Note: The plan was for everyone to meet in Tangier, where William Burroughs was now living. Jack Kerouac left in mid-February, followed by Gregory Corso, who sailed for Paris later that same month. A tugboat strike delayed Allen and Peter’s departure and they were not able to leave as soon as they had planned. [March 1, 1957: draft of letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Flo [??] from journal]

Dear Flo: [. . .] We are about to leave for Tangier, March 8 in fact. Jack [Kerouac] has already gone there, we are to meet him there. The strike has delayed us leaving earlier—what’s this you say, you plan to go there yourself when your money savings permit? That’s good—the world keeps getting smaller all the time. Things are going beautiful in San Francisco, we met a young poet [named] John Wieners,2 good in poetry, who will be here, and already all the Black Mountain group is here including Olson,3 the head of Black Mountain College. Also there have come to be a new group of painters—of painters there are some good ones here whose works I’ve seen. I’ll describe that later. But gee the painting here is at full swing—Lafcadio is OK, great, he’s writing and drawing also, boy what an imaginative fellow, his fantasy life is something. Jack’s in Tangier, knapsack and all.

* * * Editor’s Note: It wasn’t until March 10 that Allen and Peter were finally able to leave New York aboard the Yugoslavian freighter Hrvatska. Elise Cowen, Carol Heller, and Lafcadio stood on the dock in the freezing rain to wave good-bye. The passage took nine days and the pair landed 2. John Wieners (1934–2002). Poet and author of the Hotel Wentley Poems. 3. Charles Olson (1910–1970). Poet and one of the founders of Black Mountain College, an alternative school located in the mountains of North Carolina. Author of The Maximus Poems.

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in Casablanca, where they stayed for a few days before moving on by bus to rendezvous with Burroughs and Kerouac in Tangier. [March 19, 1957, Tuesday: journal]

First great day in Arabia, Casablanca. Like a movie, everything all new, like a dream, all seems changed and different, the city is divided into quarters: European quarter, Arab quarter, French quarter, Arab tombs, French tombs, European tombs. We walked into, Allen with me, Arab quarter and saw things my eyes had not seen before. Many old men covered with burlap bags like clothing, some short beards some not, some blind being led by their women, some blind hunched up against the white plaster smelly wall asking for alms. Alms for the love of Allah. [. . .] Saw one blind man in white counting his money, shifting it from one hand to another. The old men here are so strange, there’s a great amount of individualism in appearance, in the way they dress. Such narrow spaghetti streets, cobble stones, and so many people and every hundred feet a bike comes screaming through and horses pulling cart turns narrow corner swishing people aside into doorways. [. . .] [March 21, 1957, Thursday: journal]

Dream: I was in a room, with Allen, in foreign country. I was eating, so was Allen. I was in a chair with my legs against the wall eating rectangular pieces of what looked to be raw meat. I don’t remember how exactly the conversation began nor do I remember exactly what I said. When I woke up I was afraid of the dream, that it was true. I didn’t know until I woke up enough to realize that it was only a dream. I was in [the] kitchen eating. Allen said we are going to have to break up, “You’re getting to be too much of a drag.” I said, “Then I can’t go to Europe with you then?” Allen said no. (There was more to the dream but that’s all I can remember exactly.) The dream is interesting in that if I did have to leave, what would I do? Allen asked me, when on ship, “Do you think you can live by yourself?” “Very easily,” I said, “yes.” But in my dreams I have an altogether different reaction when Allen says “we part now.” Out on Arab streets walking; Allen, me. Walking, we come across a té place [Moroccan mint tea], stop to have some. Go in, sit down facing street. Order the mint té and look around. Lo and behold there are three smokers of tea (marijuana) giggling off and on. One fellow, he had a goatee beard and was sitting against the wall [. . .], finally I go up to him, put twenty franc coin on table and motion with hand and mouth, I want [to] smoke pipe. So he gives. Allen draws near. “Don’t take too much it’s powerful.” It all goes in. Very strong stuff. You can feel it in the lungs, no pain or hurt you know, just a little strong. It lasted all day almost, three hours later I became funny.

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* * * Editor’s Note: On Friday, March 22, 1957, Peter and Allen arrived in Tangier, where William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac met them at the dock. By the time they arrived, Kerouac had been there for more than a month working on Burroughs’s manuscript of what would eventually become Naked Lunch. Jack was eager to leave for France, and Allen and Peter decided to move into his hotel room at the Villa Muniria once he left. In the meantime they stayed in a smaller room in the same hotel. On March 18, 1957, Peter began a long letter to his mother, which he didn’t finish until March 24, so the letter spans his first full week in Morocco. [March 18–24, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Morocco to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: That long, long voyage on that blue, blue, dark sea and long clear sky finally brought us to our first stopping off place, which is Casablanca. The ship is in the harbor with anchor down in harbor mud so that we haven’t stepped our feet on land yet. Everything fine, feel very good. Even gained weight and did some exercise, every day on ship, the clean air good for lungs have taken thousands of breaths of air . . . . Casablanca, great to be here, all new ways of life that my young eyes haven’t seen yet. All high school children in America should go to Europe for a year, great teaching she gives. Casablanca is large, looks like San Francisco, white buildings all over, part hill in places, there are tall buildings here, modern construction, too. Allen is O.K., we both did enormous amounts of reading [. . .]. We stay in Casa for three days then proceed to Tangier. It’s when I get to Tangier I’ll mail this. The way I feel now I am in more of a writing mood than before so that I’ll write you continually. We got on the ship Saturday afternoon, at 4 p.m., it was partly raining then, the girls Carol [Heller] and Elise [Cowen] were there and so was dear Laff in his tall, blue coat that makes him look like a young serious man. In his arm he had the red box that contains Marie’s camera which he took pictures with of all of us in the cabin room. [. . .] I was feeling sad to see Lafcadio alone on the dock, now he will be all alone, I hope he teams up with Nick. It’s difficult for him being young and inexperienced brings a kind of fear that blocks one’s path, and though he’s had lots of experience in San Francisco, New York City is very big and completely new to Laff. His situation will be better if he can keep a job for two months, then change that job for another to suit himself. Get this: while Laff was in San Francisco I thought one of the ways of working on Laff’s problems was to take him to psychiatrists at

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Veterans Administration, where I was going and given therapy too. So a psychiatrist was assigned to Laff, and Laff went once a week. They gave him tests of all kinds and talked with him. Then a couple months later I had a talk with the psychiatrist about Laff to see what he had to suggest. Well, you know what that son of a bitch told me? He said your brother needs to be hospitalized, you should send him to Langley Porter clinic for two months. [. . .] God, think what would become of poor Laff if I did what the doctor told me. [. . .] I am here in Tangier now, great place. [. . .] Tangier is great, old looking, poor looking, though it’s very clean here. Arabs are very clean, much cleaner than Mexico. Food and rent is extremely low. Bill [Burroughs] is very good man a bit loony and nervous and strange things come out of his head, but he’s harmless and actually very sweet and kind, extremely so, you would like him very much. Me and Allen are living in Arab section of Tangier, cost is only four dollars a week. The room is Turkish looking, with big curtains and the bed spread is all stripes of bright colors, there are pottery dishes and cups hanging on wall. [. . .] It is harmless to live here; no danger of any kind. I will write soon to you both, and Laff and girls, and to Nick as soon as I get his address. Love Peter [April 4, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: I got a small room by myself, it’s on a roof, sun pouring down all around, I can see part of city of Tangier, but better than that I can see the bay: green and sometimes clouds. All last week I have been sick, the rainy season is just about over here. I came in at the tail end of it, it’s the sinus bronchial asthma trouble. Together with a cold and stomach pains which lead to the shits: my asthma got so bad I had to go to doctor (the price of a doctor’s examination is only $2.00 here). [. . .] [letter continued: April 10, 1957]

I am just getting over phlebitis of the lung, needed doctor’s help, penicillin pills, all different kinds. I have to stay in bed for four days; there was pain all over my chest and stomach, couldn’t sleep even. Bill [Burroughs] and Allen take good care of me. Everything o.k. I’ll be better in a few days, am reading lots in bed. I don’t know why you haven’t written there’s no reason not to Mama. I would like to know what’s happening with you, Nick and Lafcadio? [. . .] The Arab world is very strange and in a way frightening. The young females (Fatimas) wear veils and robes, and on almost every Arab is a hat called a fez.

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Peter Orlovsky and Jack Kerouac playing on the beach, ca. April 1957, Tangier. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

There are no snake charmers here but beggars are all over; there are wealthy beggars, as well as poor-sick beggars. [. . .] Love to all, your across the sea brother Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: For the next several years Peter continued his habit of writing long letters to his mother at least once a month. The letters usually contained news about what he and Allen were doing and often included one or two lines about each of their friends, such as Jack Kerouac and Gregory Corso. Peter always inquired about his siblings and offered suggestions on what they should or should not be doing and how they might be able to improve their lives. One purpose of the letters was to keep his mother informed about his whereabouts so that she could forward his VA disability check to him at the beginning of each month. On March 25, 1957, the San Francisco Collector of Customs Chester MacPhee seized copies of Ginsberg’s Howl and Other Poems on the grounds that the book was obscene. The ACLU fought the censorship and eventually, on October 3, 1957, the court ruled that the poem did have “some redeeming social importance” and was therefore not obscene. The books were not actually burned as Peter reports in this letter.

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[April 15, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Mama: The letter last sent me, with the news of Nick and all was the funniest letter you ever sent me, such a strange one. I just got over sickness, but am weak, it’s the first time I ever stayed in bed for a week, so much time in bed makes the limbs weak. I haven’t been taking much dope as I said I would, though I have been using hashish,4 it comes from Egypt. [. . .] Arabs are cleaner than Americans, streets here are clean as your own floor. The Koran forbids the throwing of garbage on the street . . . . I don’t know about all, but one day as we were rowing in a boat, a practice Bill Burroughs does for body improving exercises I saw a naked Arab bathing in the sea, by a stone wall, with all his piles and piles of clothes piled up on the rocks. I have a fear of Arabs, they are very emotional people. Allen is more scared than I, in fact he’s got me scared of them, because of what Bill B. said to Allen. If only I could speak Arab. There’s a female writer here, you may of heard of her, Jane Bowles,5 forty year old lesbian. She reminds me of you. I only saw her on the street once here. Allen yesterday just got to know her, anyway she speaks Arab and so doing gets along fine with Arabs, has many Arab friends and is well liked by them. The only thing I fear is riots, usually nobody gets killed in one, and I always have a bad tendency of making myself noticed. [. . .] Allen’s poetry books were seized at Post Office Customs in San Francisco and burned because of it being obscene, his lawyers are fighting it. [. . .] Love, Peter [April 18, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Lafcadio Orlovsky]

Dear Laff: It’s a beautiful day here in Tangier, Allen is laying on the bed with Bill Burroughs, they are working over Bill’s manuscript, it’s called “Word.”6 Allen doesn’t understand it, Bill does and so is explaining it part by part. I just got over a week’s sickness, it was a complication that developed from the asthma chest-breathing difficulty. The weather here was damp awhile back, and the rooms have no heat in them. You know how strange some of the streets of Mexico City [are], here it’s far more stranger. The Arabs walk around in a monk like costume, there are old Berber women, dressed and all wrapped up in cloth, white, covering 4. Hashish. A compressed, more potent form of cannabis. 5. Jane Bowles (1917–1973). Writer and author of Two Serious Ladies. 6. Burroughs’s Word eventually was renamed Naked Lunch by Jack Kerouac.

Morocco and Europe, 1957 59

William S. Burroughs and Peter Orlovsky, Spring 1957, Tangier. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

their heads, some are black skinned and so old that it’s a wonder they have enough strength to come down from the mountains pushing a donkey which carries garden vegetables that they bring to the grand market (it’s called Grand Socco) and sit all day on rock roads yelling at people who pass by shopping, like me and Allen do. Lots of these old people have noses cut off and eyes that don’t work. We have an Arab maid, 40 year old woman, who makes our room up every day. Every car here is small, like toy ones that were like the ones you played with in Northport. Yesterday we met a lady, Jane Bowles, a well-known writer,

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she is like a school teacher, very small, with a limp leg, you would like; she is the only one here who can speak Arabic language. She bought in Spanish restaurant small roasted birds, the small bird can be shoved into your mouth and gulped down bones and all. It gives funny feeling to see it and another funny feeling if you ate it. In the Arab section of town where the streets are size of paths in a green field, all the doors are close together and all different sizes and shapes with big brass door knockers; if lucky the door to some house is open and I can see inside the tiled halls and floors, or its plaster colored bright blue. Then down these paths come donkeys, I always try to touch them as they go by. Many young girls with bright sweaters go by with big tits held firm by a bra that is sold to them by young Arab boys who sell them in market place or any place they can find, all these bras in a basket. [. . .] Jack Kerouac has left for Paris, France, two weeks ago. He doesn’t plan to stay in Europe long, three months or so. Allen got a postcard from Gregory [Corso] who is in Paris, he says he is going to get a job of some kind. I guess we will stay in Tangier for a month or so, then move on to Spain, perhaps go to Madrid, the capital of Spain, a big city years and years old. I want to pack up now and walk from here to Paris, but Allen and Bill don’t want to, they want to go to a place and stay there for a month at a time and then move on. [. . .] Love [April 22, 1957: journal]

Monday in Tangier, 8:30 AM. Allen blows me, I think of Carol [Heller], he wakes up at 6 AM to see sunrise, closes windows and comes into bed. We both turn around into different sleeping positions until it gets to a point when he goes down under covers, and with his hand slips my cock out of underpants and starts blowing on it, he takes it all into his mouth, making a vacuum in his mouth: we are actually facing each other only he is down further on the bed laying on his right side as I am too. I start thinking of Carol, her jumping splashing tits, and of pumping into her with my cock [with] all my might. I grasp for images of her as he blows me. When I come, I’m finally fucking her hard as hell, and tell her to come, and at the same time I put my hand on Allen’s back, caressing his back and with my hand around his neck onto the side of his right cheek, where I feel the flow of liquid glassy saliva running down. I say to him in a low voice—just as I come, “Good Allen, that’s very good.” Then he moves a little down in the bed, and with still his lips on my hard cock starts jerking himself off, he comes fast, almost right away, without any words, except an increase in excitedness as he comes. I didn’t know when exactly he came, until he stopped moving. The covers were over him, we lay there a minute in silence, he goes to get yellow towel to wipe up his come that lays like a small silver coin

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on bottom of bed, and asks me as he wipes up his come do I need my cock wiped off. No, I say. Up we go to get breakfast fixed. [May 3, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Robert LaVigne]

Dear Robert: We got in Tangier a month ago, Jack [Kerouac] and Bill Burroughs were here. Have a room overlooking parts of Tangier Bay, Spain lays across the seven mile waters. The bay is jade blue. Clear atmosphere renders distant objects clear and distinct. Glad to be here. Allen is sleeping on bed behind me, he’s in process of editing Bill’s manuscript for publication in France. [. . .] Neal [Cassady] had accident on Southern Pacific train, ripped flesh off foot, was in hospital, is ok now. [. . .] You would like the young boys here, 50 cents a lay, Bill has one every other day. There’s a young one me an[d] Allen might try in a three-way ball. Arabs go walking hand in hand down streets. [. . .] Love Peter P.S. Luck came my way: Had another examination on [Veterans Administration] disability rating. Seems I proved more insane than ever, so that they boosted it up from $17.00 a month to $50.00. It came as a surprise. Can just about make it in Spain on $50 a month for rest of life if wish. [May 17, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Mama: I hope everything is alright at home, you haven’t written me since that last big letter you wrote on April 2nd. I asked you to send that 50 dollars as soon as possible for when the 8th of June comes we are leaving to go to Spain, and so far you haven’t written me, which is about fifteen days ago. [. . .] My beard is growing larger by the week, still red all over. Me and Allen took a trip into deeper Morocco to Tetouan and another town further in called Chefchaouen, which is located just below a big range of mountains that we tried climbing up and did so half way, but got high enough to see valley below and other mountain ranges in the distance. The people of Chefchaouen are happy over the cold water supply that runs below the town’s ground. Cobble stones in every pathway, a white covered town it is, something I imagine the Alps looks like. We stayed there for a day? and slept in a pension, very cheap. The great

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thing was the valleys all around, farms by the dozen blotching the fields with all different shades of green. Every so often thatched huts, groups of five, with fences of sticks four feet high surrounding them, young girls covered with layers of white cloth and a big thick belt on which rolls of wood or a ball of charcoal is carried for miles up hilly roads to small towns to be sold. The young boys and men stand in the field all day tending the sheep dressed in a brown robe with a hood on it. Now I see the bay of Tangier from my window, the sea is very windy white snow caps ride the waves, another French boat is in the harbor. Allen is down stairs with Bill working over manuscript, they will continue the editing in Spain. My sex life has been very poor, no girls to make friends with here. [. . .] Sorry to say that I’m smoking more than I used to do, all the young little Arab boys smoke a lot. God how poor they look, like the clothes the drunken men at the Bowery wear, their hair, on some of them are shaven off and have scars on their skulls, because the barber in the Arab section of town don’t dip the comb in alcohol. [. . .] Love to all, write soon Peter [May 30, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Got a letter from Elise [Cowen], she saw Laff, not long ago, he’s got job in hardware store $55 a week. Elise, Carol, and Joyce,7 a girlfriend of Jack K. are going to San Francisco come end of July, it will do them good, they plan to hitch a ride. Jack Kerouac has already gone to San Francisco with his mother, got $50 apartment. Jack’s painting pictures. He took a fast trip through Europe, stayed two weeks in Paris where Gregory [Corso] is now, he’s going to write Allen a big letter about it. [. . .] With love Peter [May 31, 1957: journal]

Why do young boys have to be tied, bound to old men? Lying in bed, windows open, reading Melville, and young Spanish boy, sixteen or so walks past my window out to terrace, crunching on sandwich of Italian bread in Tangier. We talk a few lines of Spanish, English and French, I say it’s bien noche (night) and tell him I am American, at which he makes a salute and few more things are said. [. . .] his supporter, a 45 [year old] English man, appears, holds him by the arm and bends into 7. Joyce Glassman Johnson (b. 1935). Writer and author of Minor Characters.

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my window naked except for nylon panties, says “cinco pesetas.” Then he takes the boy to his room, next to mine, I can hear their voices now, now it’s stopped faint murmurs and movements. Now a gush of water, whose cock is being washed? Jazz music comes drizzly out of the black sky. Boys, fucks, monies, washing cocks, jazz music in the night. [June 4, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] Time is coming soon to leave Tangier, the important part of Bill’s mess [manuscript] is almost completed which was the main reason why we stayed here so long. It’s a shame to leave North Africa without having gone into interior part. There is a long range of mountains called Atlas Mountains, snow covered they are, we are not too far from them. Beyond them lay the desert for many miles, dangerous to travel there tho . . . but what mystery lays there. How do you think you would like it in Tangier? [. . .] It’s that I get kinda lonely for home and how everybody is so like green leaves, so send me all the green leaves you can. E’er since Allen’s book was seized and burned at customs office in San Francisco he has been getting lots of publicity from all over, especially in San Francisco where it all happened. Of course nothing is better than publicity, the book will reach the critic’s eyes faster and the public which it has. Some critics in papers compare Allen with T.S. Eliot saying that Howl is the best poem published since the thirties. When Allen was in San Francisco tape recordings were made of him and Gregory reading their poems, this tape is going to be spun into a record with them, two other poets reading. The record will come out for sale soon, which is also good for Allen. Goodness knows what impact Bill B’s writing will have, his book is going to be called Word. I guess this is all for now until I hear from you. Please remember to send off June check pronto as soon as you get it, it’s important, for I must wait here until it arrives.— Love Peter [June 8, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Lafcadio Orlovsky]

[. . .] Allen just got a letter from Gregory who is in Paris, exciting letter, Gregory says he got a gun to kill himself, he doesn’t mention it, but his girl must of left him and [he is] broke in Europe for his girl was supporting. He goes into night club in Italy [sic: Paris] waving gun at everybody shouting “Why did I starve in Nice? You Bastards,” the cops came, but gun was not noticed, Gregory went to jail but got out next day only

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being charged with drunken conduct. Gregory is getting a book of his poems published soon like Allen’s book it will be. Will send you copy when I get one.8 I just thought I’d tell you this interesting bit of news. Love to you and Marie Peter [June 9, 1957: journal]

Have not fucked Allen in ass or he blown me for a week or so now. Last night I pushed his arm away when he was in bed sleeping. He gets annoyed at me for being like that. I don’t like fucking him—more about this later.

* * * Editor’s Note: Orlovsky and Ginsberg left Burroughs in Tangier and headed for Spain. Their plans were to tour through Spain, southern France, and Italy, arriving in Venice, where they had been invited to stay with Allen’s old friend, Alan Ansen.9 [June 15, 1957: journal]

Entered Spain, June 11, 1957, Tuesday, took ferry boat at Tangier to Algeciras. First impression of Spain from Algeciras: people are friendly, kind, not hostile like Arabs in Tangier. Saw Gibraltar on same day. Allen and I went to Granada. Beautiful place, mountains all around. Are visiting Alhambra hundreds of years old, mathematical designs in palace rooms of three-dimensional type, stone with water spurting out of mouth. Arabic writing on wall “God is most powerful.” Old castle Moorish wall, many gardens, snow-covered mountains in distance, tourists all over the place, saw Arab with veiled wife and two Arab European-dressed girls. [June 20, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Madrid to Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate and Marie and Lafcadio: Here in Madrid, Spain, with Allen, beautiful place, the sky at night is a wonder of blue, but am sick with hives all over my body and joints were swollen but now, all signs of sickness are gone. Have been in bed three days, take medicine that doctor ordered. [. . .] I got sick when left 8. Gasoline and Other Poems was published by City Lights in 1958 as the eighth book in its Pocket Poets Series. 9. Alan Ansen (1922–2006). Poet and author of The Old Religion.

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Tangier but didn’t do anything for it, so when in Spain it changed its nature and came out as hives all over my body with swollen joints. It’s all gone now, doctor prescribed anti-histamine pills and juices to clear it up. [. . .] You would like it here, thousands of bars and restaurants, food cheap—We are going to bull fight tonight and will tell you about it. God knows what it will be like, I may fling into ring and fight bull myself. Later: the bull fight is horrible, never want to see it again, the poor bull never has a chance, he dies before he knows what it’s all about: I don’t think it’s so thrilling as the Spanish make it to be—There was a moment or two when looking at the fight that I wish the kingly bull would kill the matador (which in Spanish means killer) and rip them all to pieces, but that would never happen because the matadors are protected by other matadors in ring and what not. It’s quite a spectacle, all of Spain sitting in the ring which looks like Roman amphitheater. Four blinded horses drag the dead bull away. Six bulls got killed, we sat in the sun on stone and watched only five get killed, I was getting headaches seeing it all; maybe that’s why Spanish people are kind and friendly because they take all their vengeance and anger out on bull yelling instead of humans. Madrid is big and spreads all over with many an endless people strolling out on streets or parks walking, taking in evening breeze. They all stare at me and my beard and cane; I’m the only one who seems to have one here. Allen thinking of working here, he may be able to get job in army base job. I don’t know what my plans are but it seems likely I may head home and get ambulance job in N.Y.C. to get Julius out of hospital. I keep hearing Julius call me in the wind, I cry in bed thinking of him and the hard life he’s gone through. So tell Lafcadio I can’t be in Europe long and that it would be interesting for us to write to each other when across the seas. [. . .] Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: As can be seen in the previous entries, the situation between Peter and Allen was not idyllic. Peter was already beginning to toy with the idea of cutting short his European trip and returning home. His health was not good and he needed a cane to support him as he hobbled around Madrid. Then Peter’s mother mentioned to him that Nick had just said that he was going to ask that Julius be given a lobotomy. That threw both Peter and Allen into a panic. Allen’s mother had received a lobotomy a few years before her death and it had not helped. Peter wrote to his mother begging her to forbid the procedure.

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Alan Ansen standing behind some street urchins in the Jewish Ghetto with Peter Orlovsky seated at right, Summer 1957, Venice. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

[June 21, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Madrid to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] send me Nicky’s letter about not giving Julius lobotomy. Important: I hope for God’s sake you don’t sign any papers for Julius to get a lobotomy. What is Nicky talking about? Since I have plans for Julius in near future, I want to know of any letters the hospital sent you regarding Julius. Don’t sign anything the hospital sends you until you have consulted me. OK, good. But send me letter soon and why Nick talks of lobotomy. Love Peter [July 3, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Venice to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Kate: Here goes with the first letter from Venice—never have been so tickled by one place in life before, a waterway canal in every street with Indian looking canoes all over the place. Was in one last night with the two Allen’s [Ginsberg and Ansen] passing old-time palaces, gardens of Greek-looking columns covered with green vines. The whole place is surrounded by water, I can look out of window on third floor

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and see the Grand Canal, it looks greenish. It’s a shame the water of canals are too dirty for swimming, what a sight it would be to swim in the very canals of Venice. Like Allen said, Venice looks like a paradise with mystery. [. . .] [letter continued: July 5, 1957]

So much to do in few days, couldn’t get to typewriter to type you. It’s extremely hot here, an unusual heat wave has hit this part of Europe, so much so that all stores here close up for long hours during hottest part of day. We went to beach, called Lido across the waters and in just a few minutes got sunburn, the water was all warm so stayed in for long time, I swam with my eye glasses on so as to see better the many young girls who are mostly American college types on vacation. Venice is like walking into a dream, it all seems unreal or too real and to be surrounded by so much oddity is confusing and so am reading up on history of art here to iron out confusion [. . .] [July 7, 1957: journal]

Allen and I aren’t getting along too good, he’s fatigued by heat and hardly talks to me and has no hard-on for younger girls. But Venice is great on any walk I take the super-human oddity and paradise of buildings and waterways around me makes the eyes roam more and more about me. St. Mark’s is most beautiful in day and evening, the entrance at night looks like dark cunt—pigeons all around, some on monks’ shoulders and hands. [July 12, 1957: journal]

Me and Allen make it last night, he blows me—and I try blowing him— we wake at 10 AM, and now take walk through streets of Venice—stop in at church that has a big painting by Tintoretto and Ansen has his flashlight to see the dark canvas better because it’s placed up in a small chapel and way high up on the wall. [July 22, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Venice to Kate and Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Kate and Marie: [. . .] Allen got a letter from his publisher in San Francisco [Lawrence Ferlinghetti] and he said Jack K. has gone to Mexico City. You were right, how did you know about it, did Elise [Cowen] send you a letter from San Francisco? Jack is separated from his wife who has one child by him, but they’re not divorced, she is trying to get alimony so she

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has been looking for him but couldn’t find him, she didn’t know that he was in San Francisco but thought he was in Tangier. She sent him a letter saying she wanted to get divorced and marry a Puerto Rican fellow. But this wasn’t what she was really after for she doesn’t want to get divorced. She wrote the letter with the idea of finding his address and have the law pounce on him with alimony papers. When the law finally did come to his door in San Francisco he decided to beat it and so went to Mexico City. It was too bad for he was just getting settled down and not living a wild life on the road. [. . .] We are just about making it on the $50 between the two of us, tis amazing how cheap we can do, tho we don’t have to pay any rent. But now enough of Venice and off to Florence then to Rome for a week, might hike the way, leave all our bags here and return soon. It seems nobody has had any tea [marijuana] in Venice so no worries from the cops here. One of the things about Europe that I like and am beginning to dig more is the painting and architecture of the past. Am sending you postcard of Fra Angelico that [I] got in Madrid. Allen likes it lots, the delicate and pure colors and clear lines, called the Annunciation, where Mary is sitting with blessed feelings while the angel comes with a strange pair of wings telling her God’s message that she will bear the blessed child, Christ and God extending his hands from the golden sun in the top left hand corner and the rays stream forth and you can just about make out the dove coming down in the golden rays between the angel and Mary just in front of the pole above the angel’s head. To see it in real you would say “What a fantastic pink!” I read a small book on this painter and it said that he, Fra Angelico, would cry before each painting he was to paint. We took a side trip to Padua which is just outside of Venice and saw there a chapel full of paintings of Giotto, do you know of him? He also has great blues and faces with large piercing eyes. On and on I could go about painting but when I get home I’ll show you or I’ll get some book from the library and show you what I saw here. [. . .] Have been reading lots, Dostoevsky, Henry Miller, Hemingway, Spengler The Decline of the West, and art books and paintings of many painters. [. . .] My love to you all and brush your teeth every night like I do. Love on Peter [July 30, 1957: journal]

In Florence, up on the hill outside of town of Fiesole. Saw the old Roman amphitheater, it was nineteen stone seats high. From there saw the view into valley below. Such an intimate view. We crossed the Ponte Vecchio old bridge that Dante wrote [about] and that was almost bombed on one side—in the middle was a marble

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plaque with an inscription of Dante. Will write it down next time I go over it. Giotto’s tower is great, many plain colored marble designs in it. But the Uffizi Gallery is too much to see in one day. No poor people in Florence, only saw one old beaten down woman begging for money so far. Florence is great place to live. [August 7, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Assisi, Italy, to Kate and Marie Orlovsky]

Hello Kate and Marie Am here in the great land of Assisi sleeping in the field in front of St. Francis’ church. The land is beautiful. We take walks back up the mountains to where St. Francis slept in the caves and where on that spot a monastery was built in 15th century. In the best of health, the milk is good here fresh and cold. Saw Giotto’s painting of St. Francis preaching to the birds, in fact in the monastery the very same tree where birds gathered and that St. Francis preached to. We have made friends of the three American speaking monks. Saw the mass performed by the monks here high on tea (marijuana) will write you when we get to Venice tho my letter will probably get there first before this card. Spent three days in Florence, dug Michelangelo sculpture and Florentine painting. Then landed in Rome for four days, saw old Rome, Coliseum, Forum the last remaining beautiful white temples, just a few broken arms [columns] stand of them. Write me. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: The situation with Peter’s family back in Northport was looking grim. Kate was having difficulties with Lafcadio and it became obvious that Peter would have to return home in order to prevent Lafcadio from doing harm to someone or to prevent his being sent to a mental hospital. [September 7, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Venice to Kate and Lafcadio Orlovsky]

Dearest Kate: [. . .] if Laff. is to be examined by clinic in order to be helped by the welfare people make sure that they don’t get any idea into their head about Laff needs to be put in a hospital and don’t under no circumstances, unless Laff goes mad and starts killing anyone (and he won’t do that) should you sign him in like Julius. Lafcadio is able to take care

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of himself and is reliable to look after his own. I will be home in a few months and when I get home and get apartment in the city we will put our heads together and work out some way for him to get a job he will like. Lafcadio, do what you can to help Kate. I also have some drawings I did though I don’t think they are nowhere compared to yours. In both Time and Life magazines there will be articles on Allen and Jack [Kerouac]. These magazines come out every week so look them over. Love to all Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: In the middle of September, Orlovsky and Ginsberg left Venice for Paris, where they intended to stay with Gregory Corso. However, upon their arrival, they discovered that Gregory was in Amsterdam, having fled from his creditors. They spent a few days in Paris exploring the city before they headed to Holland, but they hoped that they could return with Corso for a much longer visit. While in Paris Peter received a letter from his mother that mentioned, among other things, Gilbert Milstein’s review of Kerouac’s On the Road that had appeared in the New York Times on September 5, 1957. That review was highly complimentary, and Jack’s book soon made it onto the best-seller list. [September 17, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Paris to Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate and Laff and Marie: Here in Paris, best place in Europe, got your letter on Jack’s Times review—no need to send clippings, have seen them—your letter very intelligent—Paris is the future of the world—big black negroes sit in cafes by the dozen—all the people here live Bohemian and dress like it. Never been so excited and happy—it’s real home here—finding place to live only problem—tell Laff to get job and send me money to live here—Tell Laff [that] Jack wants to see him—Marie write me—now—have not climbed up Eiffel Tower yet—any word from Nick?—write me about your visit to Julius—will be home in two months. Allen sends regards. Love Peter [September 18, 1957: journal]

In Paris for three days now, had dreams last night but can’t remember them—Allen and I are on Metro. I writing this—Allen thumbing through

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Bill Burroughs’ manuscript [Naked Lunch] for to take to Frechtman,10 Genet translator—we go to pick up mail. [. . .] We live in the Arab section in Paris—and at this very moment I can see the Seine flow past Notre Dame and the haziness of this day like a big curtain over the city—and the cars, thousands rip by and I see green life laying its arms on concrete wall of Seine River and I want to be still even more madder love for Paris—here I feel I milk the future wave of the world. Last night me and Allen blew each other—cock to mouth—mouth to cock—I don’t often blow him—but when I feel good and excited about life how could I deny him anything and now to wander about that day in ecstasy and [what] our love for each other will be like— [September 26, 1957: journal]

Allen and I cross the French frontier into Belgium at four in the afternoon—Rimbaud must of walked this road a few times—it’s all flat and heavy springy grass where Vermeer cows stand in green dew fields with clear glowing black and white colors—saw already the flower pots and strange-shaped houses and it’s raining—we walked in it for six kilometers and am here now writing this in restaurant at French frontier—through the window cops in black raincoats stand over the cars talking—Allen says, “we ought to get on our way soon—but take your time and get dry first” and then he says “that’s very strange music” and he slides me his pen to write with instead of my pencil—then he says, “I’ll ask these guys for a lift and I’d better pay—” [September 28, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Amsterdam to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] I am here in Amsterdam, Holland, with Allen and Gregory [Corso]—great place, clean as a whistle, the people and all extremely polite—cheap here, too bad not as cheap as Tangier—Gregory’s poetry getting greater and greater—[. . .] I will be here till October 15 then return to Paris—be there for a month and a half, then return home— [. . .] Got here two days ago—saw Van Gogh’s paintings and some of his most important ones—including the last one he did—of the black crows above the cornfield [. . .] Oh but Paris is great—French people are depressed—and expensive to live there, like America—Amsterdam like Venice, canals here—land very flat—people all speak American—good milk and always fresh cake and bread—government don’t allow stale food around—[. . .] The reason my writing is getting better is because 10. Bernard Frechtman was a friend the group had first met in Tangier. He worked for Maurice Girodias at the Olympia Press and offered to show the manuscript of Naked Lunch to Girodias.

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I practice now [more] than ever before—and you should do the same, just practice and not think about trying to write great but just practice a lot—which is what Jack [Kerouac] does, for he types 90 words a minute and that can only come from practice—I am sure if you write a lot in the next five years you could get on the best seller list—don’t you think so? [. . .] I want to do some writing too and so we both should and that will increase our ability in life—Night, night, Kate. Love Peter [September 29, 1957: journal]

Rainy day, and saw no tulips about. But Holland is still here, like I used to see in geography books in grammar school—Rain, rain then sun all of a sudden in the afternoon—at Gregory’s room I mix up salad for the three of us, Allen reads poems and says to Gregory “All Greece with cold eyes and pale white face”—to Gregory who types and eats apple in red sweater on bed, the German-Dutch male maid enters [to] offer him sweet wine, he acts a little queer and fairy-like, keeps talking about bed that me and Allen sleep on, having to hug together for small size bed. [October 2, 1957: journal]

I’ll be doing this in fifty years from now, in breakfast café, cig and coffee, warm clothes on, voices around me, dishes and spoons clicking, old woman next to me now. Why do I have to wait fifty years to go through this—I’d hate to have to live in the mind—or on a lonely hill cabin with water and trees around me—now the old ladies get up to go and I sit alone and feel young again—All I need is a fifteen-year-old girl love rapport and arm hugging—her face replaces all the saints for me—and her body is too much—I had a dream last night but I forgot it now—it might have been about a wall full of snakes or a white whale on my back—but dreams are funny, like lollipops, you have them in your hand one moment then the other they’re gone—but a cafeteria is a good room to live in for a while.

* * * [October 9, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Amsterdam to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] Yes Jack [Kerouac] is famous now, he was on T.V. and the questioner asked Jack what is he pursuing in life and Jack answered “I am

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waiting for the face of God.” [Marlon] Brando’s father is interested in making a movie of On the Road. Jack has five other and greater books to be published yet that are already written. Yes Kate we are going through a golden age of literature and the four great artists are Jack, Gregory, Allen and Bill Burroughs. City Lights in San Francisco are about to publish Gregory and Bill’s works and then the big war of the intellects will be on in full swing. [. . .] Love Peter [October 16, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Paris to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate: [. . .] I wrote Jack Kerouac a long letter explaining to him about Laff. So that Jack will come out to see Laff in a few days. By all means be kind to him. He may be able to help Laff. Jack owes Allen some money but Allen said to Jack for him to use the money on Laff so that Laff can get a room in the city and money for food. Jack will do what he can, and he is responsible and reliable so don’t worry when Jack takes Laff away into the city, and by all means encourage Laff to go. As I said before I am amazed that Laff is becoming hostile to you and Marie. If I get another letter from you that sounds more serious, like you calling the police on Laff then I will come home immediately on the spot by the next boat. But Jack will write me about what he plans to do. I will write you when I get word from Jack. [. . .] Whatever happens try to keep Laff out of any jail or hospital, for I will be home soon and things will change for the better, I assure you. Dear Laff: I am back in Paris now again, Gregory with us. We finally managed to find a small room to live, but the damn lights and gas don’t work. When you get to Paris you are going to find a lot of young free people here. There are so many that you can’t meet them all. I will be coming home soon Laff and I am only too glad to support you till you can work things out for yourself. [. . .] Now Kate had been telling me you have been abusing her, that you have been doing things like hit her in the arm or kick over the coal stove or do the other things that she said you did, it can lead to no good, and when you act that way you are putting yourself in a bad position. She has problems enough, for example the money for food for all three of you. [. . .] Both Jack and Allen have become famous, Jack was on television and had quite a time, so much so that the day after he got floods of letters from many teenage girls who are in love with him. But anyway he will be out to see you in a few days. He will be interested and glad to see

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Peter Orlovsky and Allen Ginsberg reflected in a mirror at the Beat Hotel, late fall 1957, Paris. Photo by Harold Chapman. Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

you. And if Jack says he can find a place for you to live in the city, go with him. It will do you good to get away from the chicken coop. [. . .] [October 17, 1957: journal]

Am silent and sad—Lafcadio flipping hitting black and blue mama—even spit at her—Wrote Jack to rescue Laff and take him to city—Laff may by now be in jail or mad house—Nick silent—he don’t even write me the brat—he’s so iglooed up in his own skull— [October 18, 1957: journal]

Beginning to get things settled in our room. Gregory, Allen and I sleep in same bed—damp room—no heat, but two long mirrors to get high in. The landlady barged in. Not knocking. She warned us about using a radio, lucky Gregory wasn’t there—Allen and I were sitting quietly writing and reading [. . .] Crying windows peel onions— make soup—eat oat meal—have you ever put butter in it?—

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—— I told Allen not to sleep on the bed, it was burning— he didn’t laugh— —— The doorbell rang she answered— —— Pepper and salt always on the table together —— Many chairs are alone in the world —— Nothing like a hot dish of warm lips— ——— At night the jeweler dreams about putting diamonds in the window— [October 23, 1957: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Paris to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: I got letter from Jack today who is in Orlando, Florida, living with his mother. So that what I said about Jack coming to see you and Laff and get Laff a place to live in the city won’t be able to be done. I don’t know how things [will be] between you and Laff by the time you get this letter, so I hope you write if the scene should turn from bad to worse. Also if you find the situation is too much out of hand for you to handle then by all means tell me that and I will come home immediately. [. . .] Love Peter

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Peter Orlovsky and Allen Ginsberg near the Odeon, late fall 1957, Paris. Photo by Harold Chapman. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

[November 6, 1957: journal]

Am laying, sleeping in bed, Allen in the middle of night starts caressing me—wakes me up, I tell him to stop it—he does—then in the morning he does it again—only now I [am] trying to remember dreams and he comes bothering me—

* * * Editor’s Note: Because of escalating tension between Kate and Lafcadio, Peter asked the Veterans Administration to pay for his passage home on a hardship basis. It took two months before the government finally agreed to loan him the money to get back to New York. In the meantime he continued to explore Paris and wrote many poems, some of which were published twenty years later in his collection Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs. In addition to literary endeavors, Peter, Allen, and Gregory began to use narcotics with much greater frequency. It was during this period that Corso developed a full-blown drug habit that he was never able to break. Ginsberg was more cautious and never took any drug with enough regularity to acquire a habit. Peter would be subject to various addictions for the rest of his life.

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[November 10, 1957: journal]

High on H [heroin] last night—Allen and I talked—I asked Allen what kind of a life would he live if he didn’t live with me and I thought what kind of a life I would live if I hadn’t met him— There was a taxi cab funeral one taxi cab dead— —— A butterfly lay burnt and crushed against a Texas license plate while the Pontiac was heading into Mexico— —— Please come in, come in, I said to the door— —— The airplane shook the house— I fell off the chair, the floor opened up— I was down in the cellar crying and dusty My cat will never crawl by my side so peacefully [November 21, 1957: journal]

On a boring night when the belly is full—what shall I do?—get high on horse [heroin]? movies, no money for that—cold outside—sitting on the bed here—Allen and Gregory talking poetry over wooden eating table—we have a red tile floor—two big mirrors against the wall—sitting on the yellow bed—red under black sweater—make Chinese meal tonight—Gregory typed letter to publisher—Allen reading poem to Gregory—he waves his arm—“like chanting” Allen says—a cigarette now flairs—milk outside of window—[Guy] Harloff,11 a next door artist came in for two cigarettes—went to museum earlier in the day—saw eighth to fifteenth century paintings—medieval life becoming familiar to me—I have two pairs of street shoes now—a noise in the corridor—I go for ashtray for butts and roll cigarette—I have it now between my fingers and now take a drag—Allen looking for a cigarette, I’d better hide mine—he takes the ashtray to roll cig—Allen says not to write a poem accepting the universe—do anything but that. 11. Guy Harloff (1933–1991). Artist and resident of the Beat Hotel in Paris.

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[November 23, 1957: poem] Night falls like an egg on Paris Old women clutching their purses leave churches Taxi drivers ride faster on cobble stone roads Lots of lost shit falls—clear water washes down Innocent girls close and bolt windows 2,000,000 butts crunched on street pavements Rivers become darker—from grey to black Stillness tends to fill all rooms Suddenly a loud wheat reaper Comes hampering down Saint Michel to go to work— People run—trees fall—cars divide—bundles of windows get tied up Chucked out behind reaper form long line— The farmer in red shirt lights up cigarette butt and smiles at the plentiful harvest He has the Louvre for his barn [November 23, 1957: journal]

An old poor man pisses in the gutter—no angels fall down from heaven at this hour—all the tea is being poured from spouts at this moment— I cry on the street for Julius—and wonder does the fire-hydrant have bigger tears than I do?

* * * Editor’s Note: The following day, November 24, Peter used this image of the fire hydrant in his poem “Frist Poem,” which was published in Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs. Other poems, such as “My Bed Is Covered Yellow,” that were later published are also to be found in his journal from this period. [November 23, 1957: journal]

Walking with Allen, went to Baudelaire’s grave—but vampires above his head—he looks like mummy laying there—I put a red flower by his cock between his legs—I ask Allen shall we be buried next to each other?—There are so many graves and feet in the world—Bury your bones on side of some mountain—Garbage cans are graves for cats and dogs—What is death all about? [November 25, 1957: journal and poem]

Girls, girls, girls, the whole song and dance—long hairs, tight skirts, different colored lipstick—all that’s scary in the night is in them—like

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them two we met tonight in the opera looking at Chinese pantomime— French girls came home with us—two or three—I wanted to stay in the back—let’s meet two—it embarrassed me to do this—I grew sad under the eyes—but there was one girl we were all interested in— Girls pass us—face us— Walk with us—talk with us— Come home with us— Sit on our chairs with us— and leave us—to come back again— We didn’t fuck them—they are on the Metro talking about us— “Now Allen was real smart— and Gregory was funny— and Peter was sad.” [November 27, 1957: journal]

There will come the time I will die and on that day I have a feeling I am going to be very happy, no one will be around me for I will go to a forest and find a tree with a hole in its trunk so that when the pigeon in me flies away I fall into this hole like a wolf would do. And there my eyes will look to my brains and my brains will say no more except that velvet juice will twinkle through my cavernless body and at that moment a sparkle like a dream will all turn blue on a old ambrosian decrepit hill where a shack with a witch’s voice repeats the mournful cries of a drunk wino that her sons all cracked to become wolves in mad houses. I took the sun with my left hand and flicked it into my back pocket without giving it a thought, and my boy, to this day I have no ass. [. . .] Tomorrow an important day: I must go to American Veterans Hospital, here in Paris, go in there and play sick, mentally sick, so they will notice and send me home like I want them to do. The problem is I must really show them I am sick and that they should send me home. I’ll tell the doctor I will commit suicide if they don’t send me home. Maybe I’ll even cry or yell if the doctor says he can’t do anything for me. Will I be the first disabled veteran who has to play nutty before V.A. hospital doctor sends me home? What a big cheater I am. It all sounds so phony on my part, but this is not the time to be moral about it. I went to the American Embassy but they refused me, even after I said “I guess I will have to beg for the money.” The rich American government can’t send me home because I am poor? What kind of country spirit is that? I guess when it comes to money governments are always cheap. I’ll play sick to that doctor and I’ll do it with all the skill I know, and I know a lot for having worked in mental hospital a year and a half when [I was] eighteen and have read a lot of books about craziness. Yes I’ll lay it on thick to this doctor. I’ll bring him a bag of shit and put it

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in front of his typewriter. I’ll cry telling about suicide while thinking about brother Julius five years moping in mad house. But I am trembling now just thinking about and picturing myself in front of that doctor talking like I had my head in my hands and crying at it. Worst of all they may refuse to help me in any way in which case I’ll go mad before his eyes. I’ll cut his clothes off. I’ll take my shoes off and tell him to smell my dirty feet. If they don’t help me I’ll make them all go crazy. They need a little madness in their lives anyway. But most of all I’ll come on morbid and gray feeling with helpless tears forlorning down my cheek bones. I’ll make believe I am fishing, sitting on his desk. I’ll black ink his white clothes up. I’ll show him my mad drawings of weird distorted faces. [. . .] [November 28, 1957: journal]

One hell of an orgy last night—us three and two French secretaries—all night long sleeping at the foot of the bed, feet and legs by my head—cold, one wool blanket, dripping nose—Allen jerks me off, my one hand on Allen’s bent cock and the other on the girl’s ass—pressing and squeezing away as I come—[. . .] I came pulling their bodies closer to me—but all the night I slept like a cold shabby dreamer dog at the foot of the bed—Gregory [Corso] in other cold room with tall slender girl—could hear noise—knocking of bed and floor. [November 30, 1957: poem] If today I do nothing but take a walk and come to my room and translate one French poem, the first one I ever did—I will feel good and the remaining day will be bright for me— So I will now translate the poem, laying in bed, the typewriter behind my head buzzing away from Allen’s fingers— [December 1, 1957: poem] What is this? This is what I am doing— I am doing it now— I am writing a poem [December 16, 1957: prose poem]

One red footprint in the snow—what is that doing here?—why do I write it down?—Well it came from a painting of Chagall I saw in Amsterdam—I

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said to Gregory and Allen, one red foot print in the snow—“Wow—what a great magical thing you said Peter—whoever heard of a red footprint in the white snow.” So now what am I gonna do with it—how can I make a poem out of it—why do you bother me with this—I don’t write poems anyway I write what’s in my head—I need a haircut—What’s a red footprint in the snow got to do with that?—Why do you bother me—go away—leave me alone—well, to make you feel better the poem will be— One red footprint in the snow

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e

New York , 1958–1960 1958 [January 1, 1958: journal]

Out on the street last night in the movement of New Year’s Eve excitement—Allen and I just took a long walk up to Montmartre to the big white church on the hill [Sacré-Coeur Basilica] and looked down on Paris: it was all dark the view, even the lights of all Paris were dim or there weren’t many. It’s more at the turning of the year when I feel older in body than at birthday time—Happy New Year to this book full of notes and all my time bending over it—I bought this notebook in Mexico and it has only been recently that I have desired to fill it up to every last page so I can get another one—Now the day after seven months here in Paris. What a place to be. Why don’t I realize it enough?—Paris at night like last night when everybody was out expansively moving around—yes, that’s the feeling I get on Christmas and New Years in Paris that everybody or almost everybody has big desire of talking with the whole world— the people in Paris seem [to have] more special spirit on the street at these times than those in New York. All the whores were out crowded around the doors of the most used hotels in Paris. With bright colored clothes on and a big hand bag they lean against dirty walls on one side of the street while men picking their teeth stand across the street. Some in groups, in two’s, or alone in a shadow and gathering those smelly images and thoughts that rings a bell that pulls the line of all that’s known over years of deliberation—the hard-on is more familiar to us than cars ever will be—but what nonsense is this—have I forgotten what to write—practice—practice—what did I see on the street—a clean angel in underpants, the water of the gutter, the amusement stands brightly lit up lined all boulevards of Paris—All this time and people still selling 82

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things—How much more angelic the world would be if we didn’t need money to get things we want—but if all materials were just given as air is given—will that ever be? I am sure we all want it that way—but those few million rich people cling to all their money while we starve—let’s starve before the eyes of the rich people—would that mean anything to them?—I would like to be alive when the time arrives when all is given away free—the real purpose of government is to give its people what they need materially—what a child-like demand—people would only laugh at me if I told them so—but what an idea to die for—in case need be—Free everything all over the world—I could easily get an army together of lost poor bums and everyone else who feels the same way and march on the government loudly proclaiming “Free to All”—all over the world. [January 12, 1958: journal]

Morning—All night Allen, I and Joy1 making it—Twas a long healthy night—I got drunk—came three times and jerked off now in the morning, Allen and Joy went walking. I’m in the room with my nervous stomach when after I masturbated looking at my cock, the opening on the tip of the cock like a smiling wide mouth like a painted clown’s mouth or like the mouth of a fish closed most of the time. Opening it with my hands the way a fish does when taking in air. [. . .] I go back to New York City in five days—where will Paris go—Sea—Sea—Sea—Sea—Sea— Sea—Sea—Sea—I feel like an angel with stars at my feet.

* * * Editor’s Note: On January 17, 1958, Peter set sail from Le Havre aboard the Mauritania, intent on straightening out his family’s problems back home. On the same day he left Paris, William Burroughs arrived from Tangier. It was not a coincidence, because William was jealous of Allen’s relationship with Orlovsky and did not want to see them together. On board ship, Peter continued to experiment with writing in a surrealist manner and had time to compose several long letters including one to Ginsberg that was published by the Intrepid Press in 1971 as a chapbook entitled Dear Allen: Ship Will Land Jan 23, 58. [January 17, 1958: journal]

In the ship about to sail, sad to leave Allen, nervous in the fog—but good food supper of anything on the avenue—what can I do on a 1. Joy Ungerer. Indonesian artist’s model who lived at the Beat Hotel.

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big ship as this?—it’s now two hours before ship will move—on C deck before, fog and at the other end was roaring, screeching, noise like herds of elephants, apes, and tigers stamping and scratching on iron wall of cargo ship—all that noise of scared beasts frightened me—I asked someone what was it and it turned out to be only crane noises loading ships—Twenty minutes later someone asked me what that noise was and I told him animals trapped in Paris escaping and running into the sea—beware of snakes in your cabin tonight if your porthole is open. It was sad to leave Allen, and Bill [Burroughs], I was silent, tonguetied—kissed Allen on lips goodbye, Bill horrified and moved away. I told them both to take care of each other. Allen says, “What should I do?” I told Bill I felt much calmer with him now—and that we seemed to of gotten over past hassles—he looked pleased—and calmer. Time circling us apart now—moving off in my balloon. Ship life for six days. [January 19, 1958: poem] I saw land in the sky— the first day out at sea— I yelled Christ’s name— What care I if the world knows I am lonely—the priest in me says there is a small church in every wave and with every wave that breaks to white foam hands are spoken from the Bible—and every wave that rolls over a new baby is born—

* * * Editor’s Note: Once back in America, Peter wasted no time in visiting his family and tried to figure out how he could help his mother and siblings. One of the first things he wanted to do was to find an apartment and get a job so that he would have the money to help support them. He applied for and landed a job at the New York Psychiatric Institute, which happened to be the same psychiatric hospital in which Ginsberg had been hospitalized for seven months in 1949–1950. Peter first mentions helping Allen with secretarial work in this letter. Although in this instance he only buys a copy of a magazine to send to Allen in Paris, he gradually becomes Allen’s unofficial and unpaid secretary, further complicating their already unequal and still undefined relationship.

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[February 5, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Northport, NY, to Allen Ginsberg in Paris]

Dear Allen: I’m a crying man I tell you—felt very sad for awhile: tough getting job, Laff still dreaming about space rocket ship, though Julius talks a little and answers my questions he is so mummified all over his body—May get job in Psychiatric Institute as psychiatric aid—used you as reference—if get job and they send you character info about me answer them clear and straight—don’t get flowery on the character paper—OK?—I don’t know what I’m doing, in library—have five letters to write—no see anybody—Dick Howard2 moved—Joyce [Johnson] haven’t seen yet—on phone she said Jack [Kerouac] will be in N.Y.C. in two weeks—been out to see my brother Julius twice—he has better doctor now—Laff doesn’t want to live with me—he wants to make it to Hollywood—he says his name Lafcadio will be liked by everybody and his last name Orlovsky, because it’s Russian will attract everybody because Russians are becoming important—and his looks, he says, “nobody can resist me, especially the girls will crowd around me”—I told him there’s a place he could go in N.Y.C. and find a talent scout—but his damn space ship building to go to Venus is still with him—if only I could take Laff to [an] airplane plant where he would be given free permission and materials to build one of those damn things—then he might be shocked out of star fucking—I haven’t masturbated for three weeks now—here I am willing, silently, talking to you in whispers—figure my shyness will keep away if I don’t masturbate. [. . .] Next time we fuck we do it in sunlight on sea—wave rocks—hot you made it with Joy [Ungerer] [. . .] Last week in city looking for job but no luck—may get this one—$2,850 year because I was medical scene employed for one and a half years—will be interesting job, better than Creedmoor Hospital. Yes, bought Black Mountain Review—will send it when can, for money short—but will send it in a week—Michael Rumaker3 in back of book writes about your Howl—he’s jumping on your back in [a] sincere way except he fucks up, but you will see it soon. He says “why do you (Allen G.) use phrases like “angel headed hipsters,” the adjective sentimentalizes, implies a mushed “goodness,” “innocence,” that no hipster, worthy of the name, would tolerate.” [. . .] Love Peter 2. Richard Howard (b. 1929). Poet and Columbia College classmate of Allen Ginsberg’s. 3. Michael Rumaker (b. 1932). Author of A Day and a Night at the Baths. He wrote one of the very few positive reviews of Howl and Other Poems, which was published in Black Mountain Review, no. 7 (Autumn 1957).

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[February 10, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: Great piece of news this morning; got job in Psychiatric Institute (keep it quiet) at $60 week—how that?—start work Thursday—all dressed in white again—felt great relief when found out I could work there—of course it’s a far cry from dream ambulance attendant job I said I would get on pay—but $60 is okay—40 hour week and all benefits—good hospital, give more attention to patients who are mostly young, they have male and female wards combined. Well here I am, happy—lonely but okay working according to plan: next to get apartment, a good, quiet one, in quiet neighborhood. I have been out at Northport the last two weekends and saw Julius twice—he’s a little better, he talks to me—saw Nick Friday—he more friendly but still guilt-bound—he doesn’t know what he wants to do with life yet but would like to go to psychiatrist. In library now. Laff in Northport—he okay—didn’t get much sleep last night—lying in bed fantasizing about television show and speaking to America—I feel very good and optimistic and not sad and rejected feeling though somewhat confused and started smoking again—Have been looking up everything on Vladimir Mayakovsky4 that could get hands on—and will do so about [Sergei] Esenin5—Esenin committed suicide—he stayed in room four days alone—[he] wanted to write but no ink so cut wrists and wrote suicide poem on wall—but can’t find what he said—[. . .] He said there was nothing to live for, no life in life—and ended the small poem telling future young men to push forward and fight for love [. . .] but I do feel good so don’t worry dear Allen, things are going okay—we’ll change the world yet to our desire—even if we got [to] die—but oh the world’s got twenty-five rainbows on my window sill. [. . .] Start work Thursday—Haven’t seen Jack’s Subterraneans yet6—Feel better Allen now that things are going alright with me—will write soon again forgive these screwy notes—jumbled up notes— Love Peter [February 17, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Sad Belly Allen: Everything’s fine, your Peter is making it, four days at work in Psychiatric Institute. Let all anger disappear into the snow. Yes, I wrote 4. Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893–1930). Russian poet and playwright. 5. Sergei Esenin (1895–1925). Russian lyrical poet. 6. Jack Kerouac’s book The Subterraneans had just been published by Grove Press.

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you early last week, sent to England but if you no get, here now is this—twenty-five roses on my window sill—my brother Julius needs love and we must wedge together and force him to bloom and then move on to another love—Have you had any dreams of me?—in nine days I’ll have $82 + $50 dollars to get apartment—Laff in sad-lazy-state, must and will get apartment in nine days for us, for Laff is troubled living with my mother, she seems helpless and isn’t good for Laff to be around her—just got on warm lonesome train into city—Laff and I shoveled snow for coal truck tomorrow for half ton nut coal—only at house for four hours, work tomorrow—wash clothes tonight—my mother and Laff no do good together[—]she almost signed him in mental hospital, will tell you about it in following letter—The Gods of love must take me by the hand—I mean feelings inside me will have to make me more confident and clear in action toward Julius. [ca. 1958: poem written on New York State Psychiatric Institute letterhead] Mental Ward at Night A black web is in every bed— a pillow in sleep becomes a bomb— a dim light on ceiling becomes a near room. something to talk to— farts rise and creep to the window a door to some is like a page of newspaper others a mother in uniform— There is still a misty net of who is nuts and who ain’t— I know I am madder than anyone here And when I get off work in morning and walk to the subway and look around I realize the subway is the most maddest free running institution in the world for rows of faces look like terrified mummies with baggy eyes that need some shining— and muteness bows completely to the subway train roar

* * * Editor’s Note: Peter wrote two poems while in Paris that he titled “Frist Poem” and “Second Poem,” even though they were not the first and second poems that he ever wrote. The following poem, written in New York City in 1958, was called “Third Poem,” although by this time he had written dozens of poems. Here’s a poem I wrote working in the wards:

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Third Poem Subway Talks I stand on a platform or in crowd riding train and look about me, she, old woman next to me. She turns into fifty rolls of newspaper statue— A woman throws her baby into my pocket I look at the Pepsi cola ad and drink water in my mind

* * * Editor’s Note: Orlovsky always wanted Ginsberg to experience everything and get the most from his travels. Often, as in this draft of a letter, it was Peter’s voice that would remind Allen that making money was not the most important thing in life. [ca. March 1958: draft of letter to Ginsberg written in journal]

Your poem sounded very sad—have you been crying yesterday or days before you wrote me?—or when?—It’s true there is money here you could make but don’t come—forget this money you could make—or don’t come back home now just to make money and because you could give readings—because that not poet heart—so stay there and joy and live and kiss Bill and fall in bed with Michael [??]—or kiss whatever you will do—yes, stay there and complete Europe eye-dip trip—I told Jack [Kerouac] to write you more but he said you haven’t written him in a month and so he is waiting for a letter from you—and the reason he don’t want to go see [Marc] Chagall (the painter) is because the people who will take Jack to see him are square—and so the meeting won’t go good—but I told him to see him—and Jack said he was lazy—but I told him that is not true—all—this—Jack says you write too political, but I say you go on writing whatever sadness or thoughts come and sprout into your mind or spout off on typewriter—Lover boy—you are a boy you old fella come on now boy tip your hat and kiss me here across the sea. [March 28, 1958: poem] The falling flower I saw drift back to the branch Was a butterfly

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* * * Editor’s Note: In 1958 Paris and Algiers were rocked by street riots in protest against France’s policies toward its colonies. During the turmoil Charles de Gaulle was elected premier of France and managed to bring the situation under control. Since Allen was living in the Beat Hotel in the Arab quarter where much of the police violence was centered, Peter was eager to hear the news. [June 3, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: At last—you’re not dead though all that rioting on main drag too bad—you could of written some real death poem if you were—but there are more poems to write about when alive though maybe not so cause nobody has written continuum death poems—except back like Mary Magdalene or something—[. . .] you’re doing pretty well without me Allen—good—life is like chairs—they’re always empty to be occupied again and each position is different—I just realized fear is real!—it hits you in the face like red light and because our blood is red fear is circulating in us all the time—in other words fear is our brother—because if we didn’t have fear we wouldn’t look at the sun every day [. . .] Allen your letter is very sweet. It’s like eating a Milky Way [candy] bar—I don’t know why you love me so much Allen—don’t you know I belong in the garbage cans—never before have I felt my life to be like a moth circling deathly electric light bulb in summertime—but lo and behold—I am working—on the woman’s ward—twenty-seven of them sleeping under my protection—it’s six in the morning—the radiators are hissing noisily—the steam whips through them—I look at the sea and blow my kisses to you in Europe every morning [. . .] I have been trying to save money by living with my old man [Oleg]— helps to save money for apartment and also get to know him—though Laff doesn’t like it—acts stiff and silent—but if you need $50 ask and will send pronto— [June 8, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg]

Hi Allen: On the job, tough ward, suicidal patients, etc.—two of em are up talking, and girl Mary who becomes Cynthia every so often and a thirtyyear-old veteran with rare eye disease, one eye missing like [Robert] Creeley—they want to make moon bed glow—What can I do?—Who am I to say no? but they’re just talking—no fucking. [. . .] Do you remember

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the river here?—the cold bodied bridge [George Washington Bridge] lit up like ark?—did you have a bed near the water window next to Carl?7—what bed was yours? [. . .]

* * * Editor’s Note: In order to save money, Peter moved into his father’s apartment on West 84th Street in Manhattan. Oleg had broken his leg and spent a few months in a cast, so Peter was able to help him convalesce. At this time Peter received word that Neal Cassady had been arrested in April; in July he would be sentenced to a term of five years to life in San Quentin Prison for selling a small amount of marijuana. Peter relayed the information to Ginsberg, who was still in Paris. [June 24, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg]

Hi Allen: Got a Smith-Corona [typewriter] here, from my mother, she gave it to me cause of birthday.8 She had it a year through a friend she got it. Think of that—she still has in mind after all these years to write her life. She was saying how fun it would be to write of people around the hill. I was out there few days ago, Sunday, sister graduated from high school, she completed high school in three years. She really needs to get away from mother and the hill life. It’s to a hospital in Newark, New Jersey for ten months baby training course, modern looking place too. Have to go out there with her come two Fridays from now for interview. She’s on her way at last—just what life ordered. [. . .] Lots of sweet smells on the Island now. In Northport Library have Jack’s [Kerouac] two recent books and Evergreen Review. The old lady librarian knows Jack is living in Northport. She liked the idea so I told her Jack was living with his mother and they get along very well. No, Allen, I am not fed up with working on job though would like to get more paying job and that must do. This job here I can read all night. It’s quiet at night, new liberal policy, 6 North has open doors now. Only 8 North is closed ward. [. . .] [letter continued: June 26, 1958]

Julie [Julius] should have a girl—that’s what would do more—he always was strong for girls, fact, like I say he’s original Brando type before Brando came out. Just took Oleg to hospital, one month off comes 7. Carl Solomon (1928–1993). Poet and friend who Allen Ginsberg first met in the New York Psychiatric Institute in 1949. 8. Peter Orlovsky’s twenty-fifth birthday was July 8.

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heavy cast return to bare leg and in one month two weeks he’ll walk like new. Doctor said it was coming off good so no bone about that. God your letter sounds exciting, but I’m not so envious—just a little—well, so what if I am?—if you only told me Balf9 was coming over I would of tried to meet his boat at harbor, be fun seeing him again [. . .] Say Allen, Elise [Cowen] told me Neal [Cassady] is in jail—you wanta check on that? She didn’t remember the one who informed her, so don’t know if it’s true or not. What do you think?? She said it might be for tea. If Neal [is] in jail can he take it?—how long I wonder—first offense isn’t too bad. Got these things to do here, icebox needs frosting and cleaning and bed sheets need changing—ice just fell on the floor—Oleg just out to bathroom—he takes sleeping pills at night—more ice falling—[. . .] I’m sweating—the rain stopped—how are the girls along the Seine? See any teddy girls in London? [June 28, 1958: journal]

It’s Saturday night now—who is in my arms but blank paper to write on? There are millions like me—the windows are open—Oleg reading— I’ve got noise to hear—got to shave before I go to work tonight—Oleg wants to listen to talk on radio—interesting talk he says. That’s on a Sunday—Face the Nation—will I even go swimming this summer? Marie to go to nursing school in New Jersey—Oleg coughs and looks out the window—classical music on radio—he don’t like my rock and roll music. In Holland Allen walked over a bridge—Gregory wanted to steal into a museum, I protested—what the hell could he steal?—I knew he wouldn’t do it—but I caught him—he climbed the fence. [July 1, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg]

July baby First: Want to get this off to you also wanted to type out poems but so painful to do so, don’t know why but can’t sit and be patient, always had that problem. God I won’t have apartment when you get back. I have been goofing up on that score. Been going to the movies a lot, scared, all these problems seem creeping up. Maybe I have been dreaming life in mind too much, latest fantasies are about robbing $5,000 to satisfy all whims of burden. This business with Oleg has me tied down. Cook and shop for him and when on top reading Look Homeward Angel [by Thomas Wolfe]. But anyway in two weeks I should have $170.00 dollars. Have $60.00 saved so far. [. . .]

9. Balf. A friend of Joy Ungerer’s who also lived at the Beat Hotel in Paris.

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Have been sleeping average six and a half hours a day now, it works alright, I just hop out of bed fast in the afternoon and throw cold water on my face and start to shop and cook for me and Oleg. Was down in the Village Sunday night, Elise got new sweet boyfriend. Joyce [Johnson] seems sad, Jack [Kerouac] seems to no want her now. Joyce won’t give me Jack’s address. But tell Jack to visit Laff. Maybe my mother and Jack’s can talk, tell Jack that. Laff’s got drawing he could show Jack. In the Village meet [Jack] Micheline,10 said you wrote him and [William Carlos] Williams11 too of criticism of his poetry. He needs it. He writes a lot. In the Village Gate,12 a place under the Mills Hotel, big basement where you could read to 400. [. . .] [letter continued: July 6, 1958]

Morning, just got back from work, rain, surprise, are you still in Paris? Eating? Borsht? Duck soup? Sleep on a clean pillow? Only one way to make Bill stop paregoric, cut another finger off,13 make him sleep under the bed, pull his hair out, put ants in his bed, throw a lot of stray dogs in his room, take the wax out of his ears, pick his teeth for him, cut his cock off, yes that’s it, fry it up for him, sausage like. As long as he’s not lonely when he’s on. [. . .] Did this, knocked on Frank O’Hara’s14 door, he not in, door open so walked in, dark, And then saw his Meditations in an Emergency, very good, and so stole it quietly, looked around, saw “Ode to Larry Rivers,”15 and part of a play on typewriter about Helen saying I don’t think you can. He has many piles of manuscripts laying around in stacks, all that work, then I meet Diane Di Prima16 in Cedar Bar, told her what I did, then she wanted one, said she was trying one year to get copy, took her there, she took one, then back in the Cedar Bar saw Joan Mitchell17 and told her what I did, but she too drunk, she drinks too much, what a strange face she has, it’s got men’s wrinkles in it, for a moment it seemed that way. Here take this letter, hold it in your hands for eternity or until we die. Bye Bye toots, keep the shade up, scratch when you itch.

10. Jack Micheline (1929–1998). Poet and author of River of Red Wine, which had an introduction by Jack Kerouac. 11. William Carlos Williams (1883–1963). Poet and physician, author of Paterson. 12. The Village Gate was a night club in the basement of the Mills Hotel on Bleecker Street in New York’s Greenwich Village. 13. William Burroughs had once cut off part of his finger in a fit of melancholia. 14. Frank O’Hara (1926–1966). Poet and art critic, author of Lunch Poems. 15. Probably a reference to O’Hara’s poem “On Seeing Larry Rivers’ Washington Crossing the Delaware at the Museum of Modern Art.” 16. Diane Di Prima (b. 1934). Poet and author of Revolutionary Letters. 17. Joan Mitchell (1925–1992). Abstract expressionist painter.

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[July 19, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Robert LaVigne]

Hi Robert: [. . .] Lafcadio is on the painting road, got him oil set, he likes oils, haven’t seen what he’s doing with it tho, he lives out on Long Island with mother and sis. But I think, from what my mother writes he’s doing lots of time with it, fantasy paintings he likes to paint. Here’s a drawing I did of my father, he laughed when I showed it to him. I kinda miss Frisco, would like to be around talking to you. Seems I am married to my sick brothers, will be for a couple of years till Laff and Julius can stand on their own feet. Maybe able to get the help of a far out doctor, Dr. John N. Rosen, who wrote Direct Analysis. This doctor is interested in souls who are mute and schizophrenic like Julius is. Julius has come through somewhat, I see him every week. It’s gotten to now where he imitates me, like flicks his ashes from cigarette when I do, he puts his hand on his hip when I do. At least he notices me, kind of a social thinking in his mind. Seems he wants to be close to me. I would like to get a job in his hospital, but they know me so that’s out. There are very few people in whose eyes have I seen so much constant fear, as if Julius were continually looking over a battlefield like in [Hieronymus] Bosch’s hell painting. How is old teacher [Byron] Hunt,18 the one who brought us together, would like to write him? I saw his picture around somewhere around here. Sorry for short letter Robert, I am kinda confused and sad about Julius and Laff. I hope to hear from you, I will write you again soon. I feel all alone here drowning in tears, at least I can do a lot of reading. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Allen Ginsberg returned to New York from Paris on July 23, 1958. He stayed at Elise Cowen’s apartment for a few weeks until he and Peter found a four-room apartment of their own at 170 East 2nd Street in the East Village. The rent was $60 a month and Peter offered to pay that since he had a job at the psychiatric hospital and was also receiving his monthly check from the VA. In September, Allen’s old San Francisco girlfriend, Sheila Williams, arrived for a brief visit. She stayed with Allen and Peter in their new apartment, but by that time Sheila was already hopelessly on drugs. Ginsberg had been visiting the dentist and had written a long poem based on visions caused by the 18. Byron Hunt (1905–1993). San Francisco artist and poet who first introduced Peter to Robert LaVigne.

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Gregory Corso in his attic room at the Beat Hotel, ca. 1958, Paris. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

laughing gas. It was appropriately titled “Laughing Gas.” Peter continued to worry about his family and was trying to persuade Lafcadio to move into the city with him and Allen. [September 18, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Gregory Corso]

Dear Gregory: Sorry not to of written you in so long a time, but as you read on you will see why. Here at home in apartment, Allen typing up notes of poem, Sheila [Williams] of San Francisco in other room with boy friend Tom and another Sheila [Plant]19 in other room writing letter. And now Robert LaVigne is coming here soon from San Francisco so the spaghetti pot is always full all the time. Got your picture cards for Laff. 19. Sheila Plant once had a romantic attachment to both Peter and Allen. A year later she overdosed on pills.

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He’s gone downhill into paranoia and worry and isolation on woody hill of Northport but has come out of the nose dive a little since I have been here, talking to him and joking. Here’s one of his drawings, he’s been painting with oil too. What on earth are you doing now?—and now wait till you get Buddha euphoria letters and poem from Allen who had another blast of nothingness in dentist chair (laughing gas did it—that is, made him realize death more). So attic giggle Gregory come down to the first floor and let Allen seriousize the nothingness of chicklet cake [sic: chocolate cake]. Yes, you will love hearing from him now. I don’t know what it’s all about but seems to help me, it takes the sap of pain that’s always been in my chest up—we all die and so the life we lived vanishes so why worry with roses of pain around my head that makes me so sad as at times you have seen me. When worry comes it’s like a bubble popping—end of worry—then comes—giggle and laughter. Anyway, things are alright here, a black cat on the floor that was here when we moved into this empty apartment—afraid to go outside— seems he’s never been on the street—such a clean cat and all black and smart—I gave him little pink pebble to play on floor with—I hope you don’t get lost in any kind of junk jungle Gregory—I don’t know what to do about Laff, he doesn’t want to live here with me and Allen, why? don’t know. He prefers Mama and peace, freedom for airy space thoughts in Northport. That’s alright with me—that is, I don’t want to force him into what he doesn’t want to do but when he gets goofed up and perplexed and physically violent toward himself and mother then he’s going to end up in mad house—the neighbors around the house in Northport may be in process of petitioning to have Laff put in mad house because of his physical violence. [letter continued: September 22, 1958]

Jack came into apartment and was around for three days with Allen, Harry Phipps20 also around, said no word from Bill [Burroughs]. Where is he, in Tangier? He supposed to be in Paris now but no word from him. Could he be dead in Tangier? Have you had no word from him? Ferlinghetti sent us Bomb poem,21 so you’re famous in England on that home run Allen says. Jack [Kerouac] in love with your early age story of two pages, he wonders will you write more and continue it or is that the lump of it?22 We are a little sad and balled up here, three people we’ve been putting up are bugging us and staying on here and 20. Harry Phipps (ca. 1932–1962). Before Allen left Paris, he had met Phipps, a very wealthy young man, who was interested in both poetry and drugs. He was a friend of Jacques Stern and became a close friend of many of the Beat writers before he died of an overdose at the age of thirty. 21. In 1958 City Lights published Corso’s long poem “Bomb” as a fold-out broadside. 22. The letter containing this story appears in Gregory Corso’s An Accidental Autobiography (New Directions, 2003), pp. 117–126.

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we want mediation in four room quiet apartment, so we are going to write ultimatum on the wall for them to see. Allen went to Paterson for another laughing gas explosion and wrote more of poem in more clear way. Allen here now, asked when he written you last? He said he owes you a letter something terrible but he will write you Gregory, it’s that he wants to get this Laughing Gas poem into more clearer and true to what he feels so have patience and also Jack has been here. Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: At the time Gregory Corso was working with Walter Höllerer on an English-German bilingual collection of poetry to be called Junge Amerikansiche Lyrik. It was eventually published in 1961 by Carl Hanser and contained Peter’s poem “Second Poem,” the first poem by Orlovsky to appear in translation. [October 19, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Gregory Corso]

Hollo Gregory: Here’s this here poem, sorry not to of sent before but you know me when ever I have to retype something, but it’s not that, it’s Laff and Julius who both seem to be heading for death early in life—Jack has been around for few days on television and all, the Ben Hecht Show—and he gets drunk abusing all the angels around him for more beer and beer—B.J.23 showed up, Allen got him immediately hooked up with play acting—Allen going to do poetry readings, one place is a theatre24 where they are trying to raise money to do William Carlos Williams’ play A Dream of Love, so that’s good and the reading is with Paul Goodman25—and another at Union Square Park on May Day—that will be whopper. Bill’s letter very interesting about new painter, have no idea what Gysin paints,26 it’s so unimaginable but sounds just right for a meal—I found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—Autumn leaves on the ground. Have written poem about mad house and will send you later27—We all sure miss you—Frank O’Hara will do real loving review of your 23. B. J. One of many friends from the Beat Hotel in Paris who visited Peter and Allen in New York City. 24. This was The Living Theatre, headed by Julian Beck and Judith Malina. 25. Paul Goodman (1911–1972). Writer and author of Growing Up Absurd. 26. Brion Gysin (1916–1986). Painter and writer, who became one of William Burroughs’s closest friends. 27. Orlovsky had begun writing his poem “Morris” while working at the psychiatric hospital. It would appear in his collection Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs.

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poems—he feels you are top poet alive and have unlimited hats of poetry caps wigging around in your nut so expect full power from him. I am sad and have to work tonight so long for now—love to Bill. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: While Allen was visiting Jack Kerouac on Long Island, Peter answered letters and worked on business matters. Corso had been in Rome for a few weeks and sent some clover leaves he had picked at Shelley’s and Keats’s tombs in the Protestant Cemetery. Gregory himself would be buried in this same cemetery after his death in 2001. In his letter of October 31, Gregory told them that he had been pretending to be Gregory Pound, Ezra Pound’s son, and that he was penniless, starving, and sleeping wherever he could, even in the Roman Forum. Allen had just put an ad in the Village Voice asking for donations to pay for Corso’s return fare to New York, and Peter reassured Gregory that if he wanted to come back, they would find a way to pay for his passage. Peter also mentions that Allen is not collecting a fee when he reads poetry. Allen feared that if he had a profit motive, he might be tempted to write what people wanted to hear, instead of what he wanted to write. [November 3, 1958: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Gregory Corso]

Hello Gregory Pound: Got your letter from Shelley’s tomb and two clovers that Allen will be happy to have and give away, but Allen is not here now. He, Jack [Kerouac], and Jack’s girl28 are out in Northport at Jack’s home and took the Bach’s Mass in B Minor with them. Allen wants to see Carl Solomon in Pilgrim State Hospital. They all were here before your letter arrived, Halloween Jack as W.C. Fields and Allen as red pajamas under cover with monk robe to a party of artists dressed up in all [sorts of] get ups—the three friends, who all looked alike with curved moustaches and open eyeglasses—I had to work, couldn’t go—I have been up for the last thirty-six hours, most [of them] out in Long Island seeing Julius and Laff who is coming out of it all—he finally talking and is not putting down Allen and Jack now like he was before—thank God—he’s drawing lots too and going to the library getting art books on German Expressionism and doesn’t blow up into mad fits of banging head and doors 28. By this time Kerouac was dating a painter named Dodie Muller. Jack’s mother was probably visiting her daughter Nin in Florida at the time, because she did not care for either Allen or Dodie.

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anger—but he’s changing now—it takes time—in fact my whole family is picking up a little now. [. . .] I looked around in Jack’s room and saw so many written notebooks that piled up thirty high—what a mountain of writing and still more to come and all the typed stuff laying around too much—Jack could drop dead now with all that writing and never have to touch pencil again. You sleeping in Coliseum all night and cop talk—if [I] could only give you pork chops and baked potatoes in oven that [I’m] cooking now—don’t worry we will send you millions, millions, I don’t know from where, but we will send, it’s around here somewhere, not too far [. . .] Allen can ask him [Jack Kerouac] yet and others—and if bad come to bad then Allen can do a reading for you to get you home and he’ll collect money for that and send it to you—just thought of that now—Will ask Allen about it—[Robert] LaVigne is coming to town and he can draw posters for announcement—so far Allen has been reading free of charge so he can swing and say what he likes at his own expensive skull bank account—So there are many ways for you to get home. I understand Bill [Burroughs] is still in England curing junk habit though he may be back in Paris—wonder if Bill will come back to U.S. soon? It might be good for him—people here are digging him lots—Chicago Review is publishing him and is getting into trouble over it—too many unlawful scenes and words—small papers in Chicago have been complaining about it—but the school professors are for the Review so the battle that will ensue will be interesting—Jack has new girlfriend— Dodie [Muller], a fast deal, laughs a lot and is very tough and strong gypsy-like, and good looking and can fuck the covers off you—so Jack feels, but he’s always saying that about the women he makes it with—in fact, Jack is getting kinda strange now—like a Zen lunatic drunkard—but wait till you see him—he’s more drunker than a dog’s tail. Are you really going East or back to Paris? Wish I was down there with you—God it all went like a dream and lost my travel into Europe, what’s left of it now? I don’t know. All I know is I’m here in front of the typewriter with you in mind in Rome—Is Gregory more Italian in Rome? [. . .] Allen’s been typing up Paris poems, “To Aunt Rose” poem he did and others—he keeps sending out his “Green Automobile” but everyone keeps rejecting it. It’s ten at night now and I got to go to work and read all night. I can get you job in the bug house [psychiatric hospital] if you like. How about Bill, would he want to work in here too? [. . .] I am always glad to have you come here, you can stay here if you want and it would be the life, too. I hope Bill would come too, it would be something for all of us to be together to blow on poetry and prose, it would be real dreamy. I think Allen would have more courage if you were here—he’s kinda shy alone, and up to now Jack has been independent though he may change now—Jack is speaking at Hunter College this Friday with other

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writers, angry young men fellows29 [. . .] Jack has been banging us for being queers—especially when he’s drunk—so I, when Jack comes on like this, go after Jack with outpouring of love and raping him with words. I think if Allen had never made it with Neal, Jack would of been more rough with Allen on this queer fucking stuff?? A few days ago we were out in Northport,30 at night, Bach’s St. Matthew Passion was playing and such beautiful music that we all danced to it and it was so beautiful I started to blow Allen and Jack [was] sitting there—Allen was so scared and shy in front of Jack that he wanted to go into the other room, but I wanted to blow Allen while he danced to beautiful music, so angel magical it sounded—I’m tired of being afraid of Jack and shying my words up when he starts to yell and boldly flying his wild words at me, no sir-ee, I’m going to let him have it back with all my skill—I’ll make him run away from me if he lets out on me again [. . .] Your Bomb poem is selling well, many people would like to print it now, Paris Review and others. They had their chance, now they can lump it—they’re all afraid to walk in the desert when the sun’s hot—well they’ve missed the smelling of the flower—so let them jerk off alone—There’s a lot of girls in town crying for poor Gregory and want to hold his hand—you won’t be lonely when you come back. Now that Bill is getting known all over London, Allen has heard, he’s going to be flooded with buggy people and reporters—I just can see Bill screaming “I want to be alone, that’s all, ALONE, GO AWAY, LEAVE ME!” Hope you get this—sleep on in Rome Coliseum—screaming beauty god’s so beautiful. Will write again—Love Peter

1959 Editor’s Note: In the following letter to Neal Cassady’s wife, Carolyn, Peter not only voices his concern about Neal’s incarceration in San Quentin Prison but also reveals a bit of his own childhood history, when he and his siblings were placed in a boys’ home. By this time Gregory Corso had returned to New York City and was living with Peter and Allen. [January 10, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Carolyn Cassady]

Hello Dear Carolyn: Here’s a letter that only now seemed to have time and feeling to write. We got your letter today and what you said about Neal—he [is] a 29. The “Angry Young Men” was a name given to England’s equivalent of the Beat Generation. 30. Jack Kerouac was living with his mother in Northport at this time.

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speck among five thousand inmates—is that what he deserves and gets for all he did—what can be done?—Allen may be able to get that lawyer who defended his poetry ban a while back to come into the picture.31 Lucky that Neal is strong all around so that he can take care of himself—but God, me in there, a weeping helpless babe, lost, tortured, beaten up, raped beyond reason and everything—I was, when a boy, with my brother, because of poor parents, put in prison-like home for wandering boys, that they had to keep us together locked up and completely separated from the pack of other youngsters who were vicious—but [Neal] knows his way in prison—so that’s one good thing. Allen’s in the other room reading paper, we got a four-room apartment, Gregory [Corso] is in other room sleeping, it’s six o’clock now and he’s been out all day chasing girl and going to the publisher. [. . .] I got a job in mental hospital but lucky I feel with that but a prison is too tough for me. Also Jack [Kerouac] just yesterday came in from Northport and is around the corner with his new girl friend, Dodie [Muller]. Because I got to work and have so many family problems I don’t get to see him when he’s around and that’s not much—he’s well set up with his mother and is alone a lot dreaming or writing of a flower he touches in the garden. He is very calm and peaceful in Northport but it’s when he comes to the city that too much commotion flies around and he gets drunk too fast and argues, but he’s got a good independent strong body and minded girlfriend whom Jack respects. My younger sister is learning to be a baby nurse in New Jersey, she’s the only one and me who have so far gotten out of mental hospital poor welfare hole. She, Marie, met Gregory when she was last here on her off days and said to me, “He (Gregory) is like Jerry Lewis.” We also got a black cat that came with the apartment, Allen thinks it’s a second generation Siamese, all black and acts like one, active, jumpy thing, Allen’s gotten to be able to imitate its voice and so they talk together at times. Since Gregory’s got back from Europe, a month ago we have never had so many art pictures all over the walls, postcards and drawings, in fact here I am in the kitchen and next to my shoulder is Christ’s body laying out and three robed sad real-faced women and on the window sill above my head are three picture cards, Cezanne’s bridge and two Egyptian murals of birds. We all have been working on this movie,32 Jack wrote the script to. It’s being shot in a loft of a painter. That’s what also I wanted to tell you. The movie is about that time we all were in your house and the Bishop came in with his mother and sister was it? There’s a painter who’s acting as Neal33 and Gregory is acting as Jack 31. ACLU lawyer Jake Ehrlich was the lawyer who had defended the publication of Howl and Other Poems during the 1957 trial in San Francisco. 32. Pull My Daisy, a film starring many of the Beat writers, was shot in black and white and directed by Robert Frank and Alfred Leslie. It was filmed in Leslie’s Fourth Avenue loft. 33. Artist Larry Rivers portrayed Neal Cassady in the film.

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[Kerouac] and I is I, and Allen is Allen, and a good looking actress is acting as you Carolyn.34 If it goes over well you will get to see [it] in art theater in Frisco somewhere. [. . .] There are a lot of funny things in the script. The movie has not been edited yet so can’t tell how it is, but have feeling we acted as bunch of dry hams. The fellows shooting it feel it will go over well. It would of been great if the original all of us could of been in it, you and Neal and your young son, who if you remember rushes out of his bedroom into the living room just when the Bishop is about to leave with family, into Neal’s arms. The Bishop we got here is altogether different than the one in San Francisco. This guy here is a thin, painter fellow.35 [. . .] Love Peter [February 18, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: [. . .] How are you? I hope you are eating enough, if not will send you some money. The $30.00 I said I was going to send you, you will have to wait for cause I am about to quit my job and stay home and do old past writing up of notes and reading and thinking and all like that, so at the moment I won’t be able to send you that money, but perhaps soon I will, so hang on and don’t worry now about money, for God’s sake, let’s keep a clear mind. I have money coming to me from different sources and so will not be in a pinch for money, money is not a problem with me so please don’t go writing me a letter about this. Oleg did, tells me not to quit my job and what not, but I tell him I have enough money and so don’t have to worry. I guess he will understand this soon and not talk to me about it the way he does. It’s because he has so much worry about money that he talks to me like this. You still hold on to V.A. check, I won’t need that. This spring and summer we can see what we can do to help Laff get a job and if we can’t or he can’t then we will figure some way to take care of that. The main thing is not to worry but to lay planning down clearly on the table to see the different steps we can take. All this serious talk when life is so different, right? So it be, well how’s the air smell around Northport? “When winter comes, spring is right behind”—How is Laff? What’s he doing at this moment? How does he feel? Did he read the Time magazine article of February 9?36 What did he say? What did you think? Funny 34. Delphine Seyrig played Carolyn Cassady in the film. She was the only professional actor in the movie. 35. The Bishop was played by Richard Bellamy. 36. There was an article about Peter, Allen, and Gregory in the February 9, 1959, issue of Time entitled “Manners and Morals.” It described their benefit reading in Chicago in support of Big Table magazine, which was fighting a censorship battle.

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wasn’t it? Such a story and the way it was written up. They sure mixed up the facts. The reading we gave in Chicago was beautiful and the 800 people liked the poetry extremely so and old ladies wept in the back of the gigantic room when Allen read long poem about his mother [“Kaddish”]. But the Time article hardly talked about the poetry in an intelligent way, but what can we do about it?—wait till we get on television—we’ll tell Time magazine a thing or two. [. . .] Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: In April Allen and Peter flew to San Francisco on their first-ever jet plane flight. While they were in California, Ginsberg gave several readings and tried to figure out a way to help Neal Cassady get out of prison. In May he and Peter went to Menlo Park and took a new drug called LSD-25, which was to alter their lives dramatically. [May 8, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Gregory Corso]

Dear Gregory: Got your post card, are you going off to India? Stay awhile, Bill [Burroughs] will be coming back to New York in a month or so. Sad here, Neal all locked up, we have been to see him twice. Got typewriter for him. Trying to get him out. He really got a bum deal. Neal obsessed with tea and says there are hundreds like him [who] are jailed up for ever and ever. When he gets out he wants to form a committee to change the law. He’s got a sentence just like a child molester has. He’s doing some writing, but most of the letters he sends out are not released but are stamped “Write A Letter.” Allen read at San Quentin in a religious class. The best reading he did out here. Neal was in the class. A very hip group who dug Allen when he read and talked about brain-washed America. Allen met the seventy-year-old prisoner who refuses to leave the jail for no other place to go. The light brightness just like Tangier. A jolt to the memory to be in San Francisco so fast. North Beach not so cruel and hostile as the many rumors we heard. Many new coffee shops open. We meet the “King,” an oldish fellow who wears a black velvet cloak and carries his picture publicity book, and a black hat with a long red feather. Still no sign of Peter Du Peru.37 But saw Sublette38 who is going to school 37. Peter Du Peru was a San Francisco drug contact and friend of Peter and Allen during the mid-1950s. 38. Al Sublette was a friend and seaman, appearing in Kerouac’s Big Sur as Mal Damlette. His wife Connie was tragically murdered after the couple separated.

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taking writing course. He also sad and somewhat guilty over Connie’s death. Even Neal, too. LaVigne’s painting too is there in a print shop. It’s a big great thing though not completed. Having three huge ghostly shadowy figures of Natalie [Jackson]. We showed to the Time girl, [Rosalind] Constable,39 who liked it. And some other LaVigne’s paintings. He’s working on the sets for Endgame [by Samuel Beckett]. Now you got that $600, so send that $40 back so we can use it, OK? fine. We went up to this research lab in the mountains high up, spooky, dark with creaking barn doors that banged in the wind and there was a few old doctor wise men crawling around in the crabgrass looking for their eyeglasses. We came up here to get LSD-25 to see more death nearby and that’s why you should come out here. [. . .] We are going to set up almost perfect conditions with this LSD-25, typewriters, books, Milton, music records, ant colony, airplane ride, swim, skulls, paintings, tape recorder. So we’ll have lot to investigate into for those eight hours. [. . .] And Allen was interviewed the other day by the Chronicle reporter, told him about dope which may get into the papers and cause this peaceful house to get raped by the police as soon as the article comes into the paper which will be this Sunday. [. . .] We come right home after we see [Robert] Creeley in Albuquerque, N.M. Peter Orlovsky [ca. June 1959: poem] What kind of life do you keep? What kind of ink do you write with? Is your house on fire now, upstairs? Are you handy at dusting typewriters? Are you funny about boiling your eggs? Do you drive over bumps? Is your food store nearby? Are you thinking now? Is your hair touching something? Are your knees straight? Do your fingers crawl away from you? Does your stomach get upset when you think of diamonds? Are you sleeping on your birthday hour? Is there room for animals in your car? Can you sleep in five bedrooms, a kitchen, and two bathrooms? Are you happy about fire insurance? Do you have clear understanding about eyeglasses? Are you fussy about your footsteps? Is your mail box thirsty? Are you finger-painting your stamps? Do you smoke your stockings? 39. Rosalind Constable (1907–1995). A journalist for Time magazine who covered art and literature.

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Are you sure you’re at the movies? Are you sure you just ate supper? Is there fun in your hair? Are all of your teeth asleep now? Is the corn looking at you with yellow eyes? Do you have an understanding with your clock? Do you feel the tub is against you—or doesn’t understand you? Are you prepared to walk in your next dream? Do you have clear water in the throat? Are you doing anything with a tree now? Are you laying a strip of grass on your fingernail? Is there corn in your belt? Are you sure of your wife’s weight? Is there hope for praying? Are you on earth to talk or walk? [August 11, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate, Marie, and Laff: Nick living up on 69th Street in small $6 a week room, thin talking sleep groaning walls, complains he can’t talk to himself without fear of being overheard. He much more talkative and friendly and sees the need to change his life. With a new 1950 Chevy car and his new chauffeur’s license he can take country rides, he gets car in four days and we’ll both go out to see Julius and ask to release him to our care, meaning I guess he will live here and see how that works though hospital may not release him like the last time. [. . .] Went to theatre last night, saw play called The Connection,40 about dope and way they talk and live, very good, shocking, never been done before in American theatre, very truthful and real, not phony, but good acting all the way through with jazz on the stage with in, all takes place in a room, pad, ten junkies laying around waiting for Cowboy to come with the shit (i.e. junk), and turn on (i.e. shoot in veins). Real live performance in this new theatre just opened up one year ago called Living Theatre. Went with a woman and a girl from India,41 they dressed in colorful silk drapes down to their ankles. Their reaction to the play was interesting but couldn’t get it from them except to say that it was tragic and so on. We will see her in India this winter. She complained that there was no love in America. [. . .] Love Peter 40. The Connection, by Jack Gelber, was staged by The Living Theatre in New York City. 41. This is probably a reference to Pupul Jayakar and her daughter Radhika, whom they would visit in Bombay in 1962.

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[September 4, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Paul Carroll42]

Dear Paul: [. . .] Now, I have been seeing some of Irving [Rosenthal]43 who showed me a letter you wrote him about the complete loss of Ray Bremser.44 Now I don’t know what poems you have seen of his or what is really going through your mind about this poet, but it’s not as bad as you seem to think. I know that if you heard Ray read his poems you’d like [them] so much that you’d have a New Jersey grin like him. So hold off till the poetry congress holds meeting in heaven and then we all make big decisions to clear up all these poetry arguments. Because I think the air down on earth is no good, the radium dust has come and you can’t even see the poems anymore and so we just think the way a poem is and that is just like the slaves in Plato’s cave, it’s probably a grave by now, but writing poetry is such a tough thing that all other is in the heat wave. [. . .] And I will send you some more poems when I work them out, but don’t worry about publishing because I never worry about that any more and if you don’t like them, that’s all right. All I am saying is no need for heat to get between poets or poems, more likely poems. Bye bye now, love Peter [ca. September 1959: poem] Where on the heart can the bumble bee land? —— I took a walk where they all walk I had a talk where they all talk In a car I saw a bar In a year I lost a day Looking in my toenail I saw the face of my tongue pink as a pink of an eye I guess it really doesn’t matter if I sold myself for a fish or a toothpick or a tree But the way the earth and sky meet is a cross and how they are such a boss That walking where they meet I’m at a complete loss but to walk that way in step with the heart beat 42. Paul Carroll (1927–1996). One of the editors of Big Table magazine. 43. Irving Rosenthal (b. 1930). Another of the editors of Big Table and the author of Sheeper. 44. Ray Bremser (1934–1998). Poet and author of Angel.

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* * * Editor’s Note: As the holidays approached, Peter dreamed of getting his mother and father to reconcile their differences, or at least to get everyone to spend that Christmas together again as a family. The entire family had not been together since Peter had gone to work in a mental hospital at the age of seventeen. [December 15, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: I am rather depressed and confused about too much at one time, though at bottom I feel a certain kind of peace. I don’t know how to say it but I feel like dying. I don’t care for my body or this world or the trees or kitchens or coffee or eyeglasses or soup or clothes or bread or fudge or meat or sleep or death or my family or you. I feel as if I want to die now and last week as I was in bed I asked God to take [me] away to another world, let me die, bury me now, etc. That’s the way I was feeling this past Thanksgiving, sick in bed with cold. I had a talk with Oleg last night for about five hours and I told him how I felt and he tried to encourage me and he talked a lot about himself, the time he tried to make suicide with the sleeping pills in his loft and what was on his mind when that happened, how mad he was at the world and all the things in it went sour and burned in his mind as he swallowed the sleeping pills. I would like all of us to be together Christmas in Northport and if Nick will, I will ask him to drive Oleg and us three go to see you three in Northport and if this [is] fine with you please write me a note saying it is alright to invite Oleg alone or send Oleg a note that he can come if he likes, which he would like to do. I would like to bring a phonograph and some records that are beautiful. If you’re going to cook chickens I could get them here as they would be much cheaper [here]. Let me know if this is alright with you because it’s alright with me and I have some money so that’s no problem for me. So in a short note let me know about this and so with Oleg too. I will write Nick about this and I hope he will come too. In fact I am depending on him to drive us out to you’se folks and I hope he will. I am just about getting over my cold and cough and depression. Love Peter

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[December 17, 1959: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Marie: [. . .] I feel dead too Marie, but more sad. Why? Because I do want so much for my father and mother to be together on Christmas and always and they need not be alone and so now that they are separated and apart Oleg and Kate still aren’t kind to each other—well—I don’t feel I want that, I don’t feel I like that, I feel I want them to be together and I want to be together with them, I as their son, I as Peter who came out of Kate’s womb into this world, I did not come out to see my mother and father fighting with each other, angry at each other, not talking to each other, mad at each other, hostile to each other, in this big cold war mad walking world, I Peter, have to see my mother and father go mad and snarl at the lips whenever they think about each other, whenever they have to tell someone, like me or you or the welfare worker or anybody that mama and Oleg talks to about how she don’t like Oleg, about how Oleg don’t like Mama—how long does this kind of hardness and unwarmth of true love have to continue?? Until I die? Is that how long it’s going to continue? Until I die and when I die they still won’t love each other—well what kind of mother and father is this—that no love is in them and that I as a son have to see them, on Thanksgiving day and on Christmas that they still don’t love each other and Kate still talk about love and wanting to do good in the world. For who? Me? What good could she do me when she don’t love me, don’t love my father who I love, who is going to die soon, who is going to melt soon?—If I can get over my mean hostile feelings toward friends and loves and Oleg, Kate and Nick and what not—that I can love my mother, that she can love me, yet that she can’t love Oleg who I love—what kind of love cycle is this and for this to continue till she dies and I die? This not love—I can’t take it any more—I will not take it anymore—I would prefer to die now than have to go through life with ugly mother and father battling it out on this earth—My mother talks about love and yet she can’t love, and gets mad at me for trying to “bring them back together,” calls me just a pipsqueak for trying to poke my nose into other “people’s business.” [. . .] Since I left home I have not seen my family together again. And I don’t think they ever will, even till I die, they will never come together. I want the family I was born into. Well, I feel kind of dopy now Marie, all this talk about father and mother and Julius. Julius, I would like to get him out of the hospital, but that’s almost impossible to do, or is it? Well, I would like to try, with Allen’s help I could try better. [. . .]

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[December 22, 1959: journal]

Cat throwing up in all the rooms, is that my future heaven to clean up vomit? Well, here I am in the city—tickling floors [December 25, 1959: journal]

Strange talk with Laff—last night at 5 AM as I in bed—All in bed—Laff— looking at self in mirror—heard voice say to himself, “I am Lafcadio Orlovsky”—repeats to himself—come into my room—asks me, “Who are you?”—“I could very easily kill myself”—he goes over to window puts his shoulder into it—starts asking me how I feel—and I tell him simple language like—asks about his balls over and over again—says he has a hole in one of them—felt it all the time—I feel it and seems normal. Today now he asks Allen and me, “Am I a boy from beyond?”—I ask him “from beyond where?”—he asks me, “Are you (Peter) from beyond?”—I look at him perplexed—and annoyed at his impossible questioning, trying to figure out where it comes from—his thinking order in a way is upset skimpy and jumps from one ball to the other ball—His memory is off.

* * * Editor’s Note: Although Kate would not agree to invite Oleg to their Christmas dinner, she did relent somewhat and told Peter that Oleg could come to their house the following week for dinner. Nothing was really resolved, but for the moment Peter was hopeful.

1960 [ca. January 1960: poems] Between the lines of love lay death like a tiny air bubble trying to escape

*** All the world will have my bed and then I know I am dead when the ball hits the bat my mouth is open when the air shudders at the sound of garbage can tops being slid off in an alley from my window

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I am crazy as a bear that needs no hair.

* * * Editor’s Note: In January 1960 Allen Ginsberg flew to Concepción, Chile, to take part in an international writers’ conference with Lawrence Ferlinghetti, leaving Peter Orlovsky behind in New York. Allen’s plans were not definite, but following the conference when Ferlinghetti returned to San Francisco, Ginsberg remained in South America. He toured for the next six months, eventually making his way to the Amazon rainforest in search of the drug yage, the so-called death vine that Burroughs had discovered there ten years earlier. In his absence, Orlovsky was left to do Allen’s secretarial work. By this time he had a part-time job as a messenger and was taking care of Lafcadio, who had moved in with him. Peter tried to maintain their apartment on East 2nd Street, which had become a haven for their friends, many of whom were deeply involved with drugs. As noted in his journal and letters, drugs like cosenal (a cough syrup) and heroin were beginning to play a significant role in his life. [January 20, 1960: poem] What thoughts race through my mind— naked on the bed I sink to the bottom of a room like a dead fish in a golden bowl My finger scratching my forehead— my cock bulges from my underpants I put my hand to it— it feels good, full of weight My cock is a knife on this page pissing ink, milk and ink [February 3, 1960: poem] With my cock I stabbed a banana the banana stabbed a cherry and the cherry rubbed against a peach [February 25, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Chile]

Dear Allen: It’s all here on the typewriter somewhere that fills this letter better than butter or mutter, no use grease frying eggs or flying eggs. The cat

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is pregnant and tummy full. Gregory wrote asked about cat and wanted his cardboard box full of typed stuff in Paris, he’s writing book, so I sent them promptly. Cat box is clean again. [. . .] I got all your letters, by now you must be in Santiago, have a good night’s sleep. Send me a Chilean catnip. I got a 4-D cock. Okay, eat well, shit fast, fruit it up, smell the pit, lick the rip, smile the whip, and suck the hip. Everything alright around here, Laff and I reading Einstein book. Let me know if you want $45 and I send it fast, should of wrote you before. Am working on job so no money problems yet—Say, will you see moon eclipse on March 13? Laff and I saw it at Hayden Planetarium last week, moon will be red. OK now Allen, walk on, love, Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: On February 29, 1960, Peter wrote this bit of prose in his notebook, which later he turned into his poem “4-D Man.” It is reprinted here as an example of how his prose was often converted into poetry. [February 29, 1960: journal]

Laff and I go to movies see 4-D Man. Sitting up in balcony old man dies two, three cops carry him out past our eyes—that was a real movie, out he goes on his back—like a cat struck in a crash—couldn’t see his eyes, head was bald, cop had him under the armpits—all his life he must of been seeing movies and this time he goes to see 4-D Man and WOW— me and Laff like to go to movies a lot and see movies and here’s this man going past us—slow walk back home—stars above the building, cats hungry, room dark—all the work is done.

* * * Editor’s Note: The above incident inspired Peter to write the following poem. Later he must have realized that the prose version made better poetry, and so he discarded this poem and set his original prose as a poem. The movie had a death feature in the Academy of Music Theatre the 4-D man was putting fingers through his eyes

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and glass apples through window shops and mail boxes he memoed a letter and smiles exciting Universal movie don’t miss it— at 14th Street and 3rd Avenue When three cops come into the balcony a little bit darker in their blue coats and wordless two cops carry an old man out on his back and one cop carries his dead hat I was only sitting ten feet away thinking, is that how I am going to die? cause I like movies and audience anonymity [March 1, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Chile]

Dear Allen: Am here in post office between hours working and sending light bill. Got your postcard yesterday about secret lakes in Andes bus over snow—I also got Spanish poetry books—and card from Neal [Cassady] who seems to have some operation on stomach or ass and he gets out [of jail] in three months, also tried to send him $2 but prison officials didn’t okay it—Laff is okay, but I don’t seem to help him, he imitates me and doesn’t [become] independent, maybe put him on farm in country green and snow, but I get tied up in worry about him and that doesn’t do him any help, I guess I’m worrisome father fellow—if only he would do things on his own, but he don’t—my, I feel like horrible parent. [. . .] [Herbert] Huncke45 working hard on job, [John] Wieners46 wants to get out of madhouse soon, Gregory writing book. Love Peter [March 29, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Bolivia]

Dear Allen: [. . .] So I got your letter today with all smells of warts. Yes, it’s alright for you to stay away another month, it seems that now you’re really in dark lands amid dark eyes and that’s not a thing to miss and dream in the mist of. Gregory sent me and you postcards of Florence where he’s at, Florence Italy. He wants for me, you, and Jack to hop over to 45. Herbert Huncke (1915–1996). Writer and author of The Evening Sun Turned Crimson. 46. John Wieners (1934–2002). Poet and author of The Hotel Wentley Poems.

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India now with him and he just wrote a 310-line poem called “Saint Francis”47 and so is happy. Jack is going to hop up to Adirondacks or New England and buy one man hermit shack [there], to tie poems around every blade of trembling grass and tree. Laff is sleeping, I worked few hours today [. . .] Gregory’s books came out,48 like you say a magic 3-D box of toys, so that’s fine that way. Jack’s Neal one to come out soon.49 God, Allen, I sent you big letter to Lima that I hope you get?? Well, I just wanted to tell you to stay another month cause it’s getting hotly dreamy interesting down there for you [. . .] [Herbert] Huncke, I think for sure is going to move back in, only I don’t want him to get too involved in my psyche for he wants affection and I can’t give it when it’s asked of me, but only in the surprises of the day. [Frank] O’Hara in Spain for some reason. [John] Wieners not getting better, Irving [Rosenthal] wants me to go up and see situation, but Wieners may want to stay in though he’s under Thorazine two times a day and that’s not good. Hollywood wants to make movie out of The Connection. I have been writing little things that have only one line, like: “My brain is falling out but I will get it back.” Read [Nicanor] Parra’s poems.50 Kinda okay. [. . .] Love Flowers and Kisses Peter [ca. April 1960: poems and journal] All the bugs in the zoo die near the flowers or in small rock caves or under bed legs of rotted wood a berry ripens while the banana warps my tree is a fig farm falling in hay makes tomato paste under the park rock a light will shine behind the moon a toy balloon will fly out inside my nose the smelly witch is stewing her brew when I die my toe nail will crawl away as a snail Charlie Chaplin is mining again under the caverns of my finger nails— 47. This poem appears in Corso’s book Long Live Man (New Directions, 1962). 48. Corso’s book The Happy Birthday of Death had just been published by New Directions. 49. This is a reference to Jack Kerouac’s Visions of Cody, which was released in an abridged edition around this time, but it would be another decade before the complete book was published. 50. Allen Ginsberg had met Nicanor Parra (b. 1914) at the writers’ conference and had recommended his poetry to Peter.

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*** Will I pass out of this world like a bee into a cave? Coming soon to be twenty-eight that’s two fourteens four sevens and I still get boring depressions after getting high Build my tent on a mountain top or side and live there? Gee, I got grammar school buddies I could call, go visit, but no—feel I have to tell them all truth about living world’s experience and feel not afraid to tell, but don’t want to be laughed at and embarrassed—poor Jimmy so tall and thin and Tom Catholic parents and sisters What are they doing now? Married, Jimmy, yes—and baby too—he did it young and Hank the crook kid, thief and he got me too, near Kissena Park, Flushing, to follow girl on way home from skating and we laid her out on snow covered lawn and felt her breasts up and he wanted to pull her panties down and she screaming—finally ran away scared—big brothers after us?—good thing she went to another grammar school—Hank said “Ah, she probably liked it”

*** Have a habit— Pulling my eyelashes out— something to feel—(I guess) ?

*** I guess I’m tired and smoking too much and coming down off high amphetamine— so fuck it— no need to write tonight anyway— or think of things to write— it’s just a bitching trait that runs like a gold mine in me— just pat my hat and turn face to dark wall

* * * Editor’s Note: During Allen’s absence Herbert Huncke had fallen in love with Orlovsky, writing romantic letters to Peter and trying to get

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him into bed with him. Peter found him a nuisance, and when Huncke moved out of the apartment Peter was relieved. Within two weeks, however, Herbert was back and living in another apartment in the same building at 170 East 2nd Street. Also important in this letter is the first mention of Janine Pommy, later Vega, who had come to the city as a sixteen-year-old and become involved with the Greenwich Village poetry scene. She and Peter had a long sexual relationship, and she remained close to both Peter and Allen for the rest of her life. [April 9, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Bolivia]

HiYa Flower Ass Allen: No, it’s not as bad as all that with [Herbert] Huncke, he’s living upstairs after having moved out for a week or two into International House, there was a couple of stupid hassles that have quieted down and I don’t want to bring them up to tell you or Huncke cause they’re so pointless and it distracts from more important things, like writing and reading, etc. So don’t go writing Huncke any axe-waving letters cause it will only get him bugging me, but if you do send him postcard ask him about how his writing is and things like that. Okay, no, he’s not living here and I am learning to keep his making others feel guilty by giving him lot of homework to do in reading, etc. Also we went to The Beats party (book edited by Seymour Krim51) at Living Theatre, bunch [of] people there, [Lawrence] Ferlinghetti there, too. He told me all about Concepción reading. He, [John Clellon] Holmes the Go man and Krim and me went to bar after party and I let Krim have my dislikes of his book. It’s really bad, fatty and Krim’s introductions to each poet’s poem makes it look and feel like here’s ten poets and writers [from] freak show at 42nd Street or circus with Krim handling cane and straw hat shouting, “Here you crazy audience, dig these hip cool jazzy poets about to read you the grooviest and most swinging poetry alive today!” So I told him that and he took it kind of defensively, though not much, because I didn’t put in an arguing way and told him he had lot of homework, too. [. . .] I’ve been screwing Janine [Pommy Vega]52 some and taking cosenal and Laff slides into bed, but she won’t have him so Laff is getting girl hungry, but so far no lays for him and I use cosenal to help me dream the day through clear and I try to get out of worry cycle over Laff. He needs something to do all day but we learned how to play chess and we battle that out and when others come over he plays them games, he got the better of Elise [Cowen] in three games, so that’s that. 51. Seymour Krim (1922–1989). Writer and critic, author of Shake It for the World Smartass and editor of The Beats (Signet, 1960). 52. Janine Pommy Vega (1942–2010). Poet and author of Poems to Fernando.

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I woke up yesterday and put my head out the window and realized I was washing my face with air. Yes, I think you’re at the most interesting part of your trip now and it’s good to keep that up [. . .] OK—Love and Kisses and Flowers Peter [May 31, 1960: poems] There is more to sorrow than loneliness—

*** The Department of Sanitation is doing the sweeping on Ave “D” while the mothers are shopping

*** I wouldn’t want to work with a hat on and tie in below office always fingering a pen No, I’d stab that paper— but down here I wait, in yellow basement amid ten other old messenger men, in row of chairs with canes to help— if I’m lucky now I’ll get to be off and down some street the boy they call me is sitting here dreaming about nothing of a job they know of— [June 8, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Peru]

Sorry Allen: I should have written before but figured you in jungle sitting on bones. I’m all right, just took mescaline last night all alone, Laff over at Irving’s [Rosenthal] for the last two nights and so am on edge and

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little doubtful about everything but worked at job an hour and got paid $28 and home here now at 2 PM to clean house up. [. . .] I’ll bet you’re still in [the] jungle and won’t get this letter for awhile. Oh yes, I also got your long ether notes,53 such a long thing, little bit like Jack’s [The Scripture of the] Golden Eternity though his is not so personal. I liked the pottery description of jumbled up face of many eyes and cheeks and half nose and the part about pronouncing creators name as getting close to the trap of magic. I don’t know, but was exciting to come to that part and so wanted to hurry to continue on to see what followed “Christ was God or the Devil, yet the experiments must continue!”—you make it sound so terrifying Allen. I’ll send it to Jack by mail because he no come to the city after last time so drunk for five days and I don’t like to disturb him out [there] for he may be working hard. [. . .] Mescaline was very good, all through the night, kept my eyes closed, but hours later started talking to myself in my mind and then got hung up on nakedness. Should I take my clothes off at 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue? [. . .] Should I go there and take my clothes off and should it be with a big hard-on or stand meek and look people in eyes? Then I thought me and you might walk to Coney Island boardwalk naked hand in hand. Got up that morning high still and went to work with big smile and giggle on my face. I told no one I took it except you. [. . .] Took Laff up to minister, friend of Ed Marshall54 who lays hands on you [a faith healer]. He did that for Laff but I don’t know much good it will do. Laff has been staying over at Irving’s [Rosenthal] these last two days. They get along good. Maybe they become lovers. Laff needs somebody. His trouble is that from fourteen until now he has had no boy or girl lover friend companion to be with, so he don’t know what a relationship is. Anyway it’s to be made sure that Laff keeps out of house as much as possible. Doctor up in Boston said I too much like protective parent. There also might be a place for Laff to go in [the] Bronx. It’s a place mixed-up kids can go to all day and then return home at suppertime. Group therapy and play and workshops, maybe oil [painting] for Laff there. Okay now Allen, your lovebird’s home cleaning windows with his tongue and the ice box has to do its melting so I can use water to clean up dust under bed. Hubba-hubba. Come on home and stir up some rice pudding with your cock. I guess I hear from you in jungle soon. Love Peter 53. Ginsberg had just written the poem “Aether,” which appears on pages 250–262 of his Collected Poems. 54. Edward Marshall (b. 1932). Poet and author of Leave the Word Alone.

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[June 17, 1960: poem] Going over to my father’s on subway waiting for train, food in one bag and small frying pan in other. Lafcadio had seen him last night and gave a note to Laff to hand to me saying he was broke and wanted me to bring food—brought fish two small ones I bought in Essex Retail Market only 20¢ lb. and a lemon and piece of cake bought at bargain prices and powdered milk in small tin of espresso coffee and the train has arrived to take me to him—Will he be home or out walking?—I don’t care—will then leave food package by his door— have to do a lot of things in this world and this is one of them—he could come down here to eat—

* * * Editor’s Note: While in the Amazon jungle experimenting with yage, Allen Ginsberg wrote a number of poems. In his most recent letter to Peter he included a copy of the manuscript for “Magic Psalm,”55 which Peter mentions here. Peter was indulging in drugs in New York and had just sampled amphetamine, mescaline, Ditran, and a number of other things. [June 18, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Peru]

Hollo Allen, dreaming on your back: 55. “Magic Psalm” appears on pages 263–264 of Ginsberg’s Collected Poems.

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Yes, “Magic Psalm” is very good and I know it will even sound more beautiful when I hear you read it. When just beginning first few lines of it I felt a voice was talking inside you or some God was telling you what to write. You want God to talk to you—Don’t be afraid, but it’s alright to be afraid—Sent you two letters to Hotel Pucallpa with mail in them for you to do more answering—more [people] want your poems [. . .] Bill [Burroughs] had yage in Pucallpa—funny how he had to buy his way with witch doctor giving him whiskey for yage and you find witch doctor Christ-meek-like—and show him Indian miniature eye of God schizophrenic drawing and he gives you yage [. . .] Okay Allen, thinking about death very real and also telepathic awareness in other’s eyes—real meat—when I got high on mescaline last week got telepathic sense in me and it [was] about something, can’t figure what it is, maybe it is death knowledge, like you say—but it is very real, more than mad or crazy or real—and so that golden bell the church has not yet rung. love you Peter [June 21, 1960: journal] 3 AM

Home—back from 42nd Street movie— the first one you see on 42nd Street we went in— way up on top sitting under the ceiling with wooden adornments up there unfolding like an octopus and two giant light bulb eyes all lit through the two shows— and me giggling into screams horror when she opens freezer door and sees a package of eyes dead staring into her student study face— and I brought Laff along to laugh— I was so bored and pleased at movie I didn’t even want candy— and now at home I must say goodnight movie [June 23, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Peru]

Dear Allen with dark Indian death eyes: Am here at 33rd Street Post Office taking long walk high on amphetamine pill and just came from washing my face and neck from firehydrant that used to protect slums but where now lays vast empty torn brick space—and I asked for job from half-naked man fixing wire fence if I could pick up bricks like I see old colored men do all around—but no—and today got post card from Jackey boy [Kerouac]. He got your “Aether” notes poem—says great—wants me to stop by see him and so I

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make copy of “Magic Psalm” poem and send it to him like you say to do. Vast spread in Sunday Daily News about Jack’s The Subterraneans due to show in two weeks56—and today, earlier, went to job work but they no need me to do errands for them today—but collected $5 pay they owed me for last week’s work—I decided to buy N.Y. Post and on page two is blast “Kerouac Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” by Al Aronowitz,57 but LeRoi [Jones]58 gets a little sense into article—so not so bad—anyway it’s the meaty sense of soul that touches not where you live—your last word in “Magic Psalm.” [. . .] I also thought, yesterday, that you [. . .] feel I do harm to myself if we separated and you get married (children) or I get mad at you and so I think now whatever we do—whether I turn into cockroach crawling along 1st Avenue cobblestones and get crushed by truck—both get married or just you—you fall in love with John Wieners or bring back new boyfriend from Lima or you want to go away alone by yourself to India hill cave—or sit on my cock and talk it over and lay down and do it again—or you get married and I take care of your baby while you blink in jungle storms or open the door and say, “Now Peter, you just can’t stay around and do nothing all the time”—or be happy to each other at important times—maybe I am your child and you don’t know it Allen. Allen, I love you, Allen. Please Allen—give me a sappy kiss. Oh, realized Ditran Laff and I had is like electric shock without going into convolutions—suppose we drop dead now—why this letter?—where would it go?—does God work that way? and just thought you said “death is a letter never sent”—have you thought that again? [. . .] Love from the 33rd Street post office, Peter [ca. June 23, 1960: poems] Reading a story, before I finish must pet the cat at my feet.

*** In a cave there was a slave with a golden tooth pick.

56. Jack Kerouac’s book The Subterraneans, which had been published in 1958 was being released in 1960 as a major motion picture starring George Peppard and Leslie Caron. 57. Al Aronowitz (1928–2005). Journalist who wrote a series of articles about the Beat writers for the New York Post. 58. LeRoi Jones, aka Amiri Baraka (b. 1934). Poet and writer, author of Blues People.

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*** Two apples Kissing on a tree The sun—moving closer!

*** In a dream Ten red cars Speeding down a water fall.

*** Another alphabet Came out of The monkeys mouth! [July 9, 1960: journal]

Dream: Was in a room with my brother Julius and he showed me poems on all kinds of paper and cardboard spread on floor—seemed he had showed me before, years back—one line only remember, “Silver Tons in the Sun” and then dream changed to a mental hospital where a doctor gave me injection in my thumb of dream drug and the rooms of my mind got bigger and so didn’t talk when he wanted me to, for my dream world was more interesting and also fear of doctor’s powers over me—he got angry and started to accuse me—and then I realized he had no right to be angry and hostile at me—that he should be kinder and so I started to go forward to tell him and he came toward me with a painted face with a scary smile—end

* * * Editor’s Note: Ginsberg returned from South America during the summer and shared a gallon jug of ayahuasca (the drug derived from the yage vine) with Orlovsky and neighbors who now included the San Francisco poet Bob Kaufman, Carl Solomon, Herbert Huncke, and Elise Cowen. Peter continued to write, but the results were disappointing and what with his other duties he felt that he didn’t have enough time to devote to poetry. His job and family, coupled with his increased use of drugs, were eating up all his time. The following prose journal entry is another that Orlovsky later laid out as poetry.

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[August 9, 1960: journal]

Now that my television set don’t work and summer here and I leave my windows open and shades up, I feel my windows are television sets and then I look at the street world—and street world looks at me—so help me God—if I ever get out of this street world, I’ll tickle my toe. [September 1960: poem] Lafcadio is watching me, so I can’t write any more, so I feel I should stop, but all he seems to want is a cig that happens to be near me and then he goes away and I feel relaxed again—he in kitchen now and his steps sound greasy [September 7, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Kate Orlovsky]

Hollo overly worried mother: Read your letter [a] few times and I feel bored by your attitude and worries about me and Oleg and how stupid for you to tell Lafcadio not to get a job, assuming he could get a job. Are you going nuts? I hope not, but why the hell are you overly worried and mean to Oleg? [. . .] I’ll not have any more of your explosions in letters to me. They get in the way of problem solving, or maybe you don’t want to solve your problems or maybe you think you got all the problems in the world and that the world revolves around you and if you feel this, then I think you need help with your problems and I suggest you go get a job or seek your welfare officer or some friend and if you feel you have no friend then go to mind doctor because that’s what they are for, for people who feel they can’t trust anybody.

* * * Editor’s Note: Among the hundreds of letters waiting for Ginsberg upon his return from South America was one from William Burroughs, telling Allen of Burroughs’s discovery of the cut-up method of composition. By randomly slicing through pages of texts and rearranging the strips to form new sentences, William believed that he could get to the very meaning of the words themselves. Although they thought it was a major discovery, neither Allen nor Peter found the process to be very help-

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ful in their own work. Peter tried it a few times, but the results were unrewarding. In the following letter to Burroughs, Orlovsky describes the results when he cut up his “Frist Poem” and reassembled it. [September 9, 1960: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to William S. Burroughs]

Dear Bill of the quiet: I did cut up on one, “Frist Poem” and reading it anew I see: 1. You are Kafka, the guy who jumps over buildings to get away from me. 2. I fear I might get married to fat, colored woman because she will sit ten children on my lap, but I can marry her because all I needed was ink to walk in the street. 3. I will grow a beard in one day before my eyes. [The cut-up version of the poem begins:] I meet Kafka and he jump Poem My body turned into sun in my window poured into tea I found the meaning of east All I need was ink to . . .

Should I marry fat colored woman, Bill? I’ll do [it] if you do. Come on Bill, let’s do the tango with our two fat mama’s—[they] can give us ten darlings, but I’m serious—and you too—all them honey dew melons that lay in the field all day working hard while you rode by in a rose as a kid sucking licorice or eating the black apple. I am sorry Bill, but supper here is ready on the kitchen stove, cooked by the help of my brother and sister and Allen is resting and Carl [Solomon] is resting and we all will eat on this Saturday of calm night. Good night Bill Peter [late 1960: journal]

For once and for all Laff has to get a job—Question has always seemed to hinge on mama painting Laff can’t work and so has to stay on welfare—if she told him to get work he would, but she always adds, when talking about this, [that it] would be good, only who would ever give him a job the way he is?—so parent is present and seems she is it for saying to Laff “you can’t work and keep job”—Now my mother wants to know if Laff is going to get off welfare or stay on—she fears people in Northport are

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beginning to become aware that her son is on welfare and not living with her—if he gets off welfare, she doesn’t necessarily have to get off.

* * * I blow Allen before I go to work—end off by jacking him off with his arms around my head and my shoulders by his breast. He shoots all over bed—saying that was good—he says he and Laff were feeling each other up—Laff was holding his cock at night bed—gentle bodies in bed—tickling at night.

* * * Where are all my old man patients in reception building 3rd floor of Creedmoor State Hospital?— Some dead Some sitting in bed with their head to their arm— the magic of the universe— just popped into being and now got all this

4

e

The Mediterranean, 1961 Editor’s Note: During the winter of 1960–1961 Peter and Allen began to make plans to travel extensively. They wanted to visit Burroughs in Morocco and Corso in Europe and then continue to India, where they hoped to escape all the media attention that the Beat Generation was attracting. Allen felt that the distractions were a waste of time. Much of Ginsberg’s time during the months before they left was spent fighting for the relaxation of America’s stiff drug laws. He also worked with Harvard professor Timothy Leary to study the effects of psilocybin and a new group of psychedelic drugs. Orlovsky’s main concern at the time was for his family. He tried to figure out how he could leave them on their own for an extended period of time. He had been dating Janine Pommy and it seemed that her willingness to take care of Lafcadio in Peter’s absence might be just the solution. Peter continued to work as a messenger, and the money he earned from that job coupled with his VA check helped to support the household. In this letter he mentions that his mother Kate has just applied for a job with the food service at a local VA hospital. [March 2, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello there Kate: Got your note and VA check, thanks for prompt action. VA hospital job? Well, food job not bad, maybe you can ship me a meal or two to India when I get there. Just took driving test and think I passed. Yes, plans are shaping up to get trip on the sea. Lafcadio took a dance lesson with dance group here and can continue if he desires. Modern Ballet it is and he’s learning to twirl around in toe shoes and black tights at a studio on 18th Street. When we go, which may 124

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be in two weeks to a month, Lafcadio will stay with my girlfriend, Janine [Pommy Vega] and [Herbert] Huncke and also lining him up to attend a place called the Fountain House, a place where undecided-minders like Lafcadio can go in the day and be given different occupational and guidance learning and come home in the evening to where he lives with Janine and Huncke. We recently visited a farm in Staten Island run by a very famous woman Dorothy Day1 of the Catholic Worker paper which she edits and has for some time. We visited her farm for a day and night and Lafcadio liked it, but they were a little bit leery of him because of the need for supervision for awhile anyway until he gets the hang of the farm and its operations. Dorothy Day was away on a lecture trip in Texas and if she had been there she might have been more open to Laff than her manager [was], a young fellow who is a little bit distant. We have also been going to see a doctor who likes Laff and who I believe will be willing to keep open communication should Lafcadio want to. There is also another farm group in Connecticut where Laff may be able to stay, but that has to be investigated yet. I do think it better for Laff and me that he not come to Europe because he will be stuck with us for sole companionship not knowing languages. So I’m OK tho haven’t seen Oleg or Nick recently but will before I go off to sea and will come out to see you again too before I go. So here’s hoping you are a good student and learn the ABC’s of Lips.2 Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: On March 23, 1961, Orlovsky and Ginsberg left on the SS America sailing for Le Havre, France. They had no set plans other than to see friends and eventually visit India. Peter would not be home for nearly three years, although thoughts of his family were never far from his mind. He left his brother Lafcadio with Janine Pommy and Herbert Huncke, who were to take over their old apartment on East 2nd Street and pay the rent. Because of their heavy use of drugs the situation at the apartment rapidly deteriorated and before long they were evicted. [March 26, 1961: journal]

Now the third day out—feel fine, little lonesome for Janine and felt hurt she made it with Bill Heine3 while I was around, though she told me 1. Dorothy Day (1897–1980). Activist and founder of the Catholic Worker. 2. Kate Orlovsky was deaf and she had enrolled in a lip-reading course. 3. Bill Heine (1929–2012). Artist who lived on the Lower East Side.

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about it four days after—but she has a right to act on her own—and fuck as she sees fit—but she’s on her own now. How will she do with Laff, my baby brother?—if she screws him that would be great for Laff—He’s 20 and still a virgin—I think Laff likes to be like Nick with no woman or nothing—I guess he’ll get wound out to his mother’s [Kate] sooner or later—I plan not to help him anymore—he’s too big a baby and don’t grow—that’s why a woman around him might change him or Huncke to blow and screw him is better than nothing—some human contact on body level is better than staring at shit floating in the crapper! Dream: Worried girlfriend Janine—I had gone away on a long trip and only four days passed and she came in with whole bunch of people—Huncke—Laff—some other young men whom I was getting jealous over—I was hard mannered and curt—and though at first tried to give her a big smile with a swelling feeling but she didn’t want it—social scene—many young people—orchestra—I started to give a lecture about something in funny language—[. . .] worried someone else is going to dance with Janine—seems we’re back in school—we had to straighten up the group which was getting larger.

* * * Editor’s Note: On March 29 Peter and Allen arrived in France and immediately took the train to Paris, where they rented their old room at the Beat Hotel on the Rue Git-le-Coeur. They discovered that William Burroughs had left town just before their arrival, but Gregory Corso was there, having just finished writing American Express, a novel that was soon to be published by the Olympia Press. The following day Brion Gysin told them that Burroughs had left because he did not want to see Peter and Allen together. Burroughs could not understand what Allen saw in Peter and made no effort to hide his disgust. [March 29, 1961: journal]

Landed—Le Havre—How did I get to Europe so fast—won’t my mother be surprised?—Back in Paris—where smell of Gauloises4 stale grows each moment and overcoats get darker and people stare. [March 30, 1961: journal]

We meet Gregory on first day we land in Paris walking up Boulevard St. Germain, who says later to Hohnsbeen in the Cafe De Fleuries [that] we looked like pair of ducks—Gregory fine looking in black overcoat 4. Gauloises. A popular brand of French cigarettes.

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Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Ed Freeman, and Peter Orlovsky, Spring 1961, Paris. Note Peter’s red striped sneakers. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

and sneakers—We pat and feel his hair—really him—talk—go looking for room in hotel—find Gregory one—he takes room 9 and gets excited and reads his President Kennedy play5 and shows us his record supply—and sniff dull not cocaine but pills chopped up—aspirins—[. . .] We dress up—Gregory wants go see [Maurice] Girodias6 for drinks at this place—I am now looking around and out to talk to anyone—rose in 5. Gregory Corso was working on a long play about John Kennedy and sent it to Lawrence Ferlinghetti at City Lights, but it was never published. 6. Maurice Girodias (1919–1990). The founder and publisher of the Olympia Press.

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my best shirt Allen bought me—my red striped sneakers and hair bangs and all—causes sensation of eye giggle stares and endless remarks—I want to go to bed—no sleep the last night on ship—we go up to our old room number 25, [at] 9 Rue Git-Le-Coeur and see once again our old room and Allen [gets] upset [at] Gregory for saying Hitler is love—now to come back to it—felt dormant in feeling waves of “Oh Yes—How beautiful it all was then”—no it didn’t gush up—perhaps because Brion Gysin was now occupying our old room—and had to find out info about Bill—already Bill robbed me of my rebirth at 9 Rue Git Le Coeur—and my newness of suddenly being there again. To American Express and no word from my Laff and Janine—and what’s been happening to them this past week I’ve been on the ship—[. . .] Paris again—the roof tops roll around some—Place Saint Michel—we met Girodias of Olympia and drink with his girl in a cafe saloon. [April 1961: poem] My Own Writing My own writing is like me, or someone, making room on a page to move around in as to dance before a mirror or sing before a mirror or talk to oneself— to keep on and be tickled by each little improvisation or cry of fleeting memory— Swell to be sadly crying for a while— as is my want. Bend my head— the price for being a lone wolf— on the touch—up my ass with ear—to hear what swells within each rib— I’m an artist, I can slice my heart up and put it into my brain skull pot and press the jet light of my eye— for gassier reasons than some two thousand year old God did back then—he he— —me me— [April 3, 1961: journal]

Monday—woke up early—Allen screws me thru the legs—I get up 9 AM— to buy milk and croissants—I go to Gregory’s hotel—He throws me the key out the window on to street, my eyeglasses fall and break—we go

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back to our 9 Rue Git Le Coeur—meet up with John Hohnsbeen7 take bath—go over the Seine River—Notre Dame—bridges over—signs on the wall—Paris in April—rain ten times on cafe table and chair—we sit in a German restaurant—dish of mixed meat—Gregory’s book to come out any day now—talking who to come to party for him—to take Baudelaire’s tombstone fucking party—“Haven’t done anything—in two years—Just kill myself for publicity stunt—what am I coming to?”8 Three days no writing in book here—constantly with Gregory and Allen—and meeting and drinks and tea [marijuana] high—no dreams last night—we are on island on the Seine River—Gregory wants to see (Sagan) female writer (Françoise Sagan)9—I walk down the street ringing my bell that Janine [Pommy Vega] gave me10—last five minutes on ship leaving New York City harbor—In Cafe de Flores I start talking to three English girls—one a small Russian and ask for her address—She gives—her mother Anastasia11—Is she kidding?—Talking with [Maurice] Girodias in restaurant—The wine getting me—want to do something—got high on H [heroin] few days ago—not too good. [April 4, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Paris to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Mons! Gay Paris, am here, the rain of April upon my walking head, Gregory fine, rosy cheeks from Greece sun—he looks like Italian tomato farmer— you should come here if you can—am in old hotel as before when in Paris—9 Rue Git-Le-Couer—I was just playing soccer with some small boys in courtyard—on the ship ate lots of food and exercise, gained five pounds so feel fine now—many kinds of French cheese—Haven’t gotten down to study in Russian yet but did a French lesson yesterday—Paris full of pretty girls and healthy colored fellows—many people to meet and plenty cafes to sit in—Tell Nicky to come to Paris too—He would love and feel at home here—and people don’t stare at you as Nicky feels they do in N.Y.C. and plenty [of] girls for him—He could get job in Kennedy’s Peace Corps—and really travel around—Will send him a postcard of Paris—We stay here for short while—maybe until end of April—and then to Berlin maybe? Love Peter 7. John Hohnsbeen (1926–2007). A friend of Ginsberg’s from his days at Columbia College, living in Paris at the time. Later as an art dealer he became associated with Peggy Guggenheim. 8. Gregory Corso had once threatened to commit suicide in Paris, hoping that someone would bail him out of his dire economic straits. 9. Françoise Sagan (1935–2004). French writer and author of Bonjour Tristesse. 10. Before Peter left on his trip, Janine had given him a small bell to remind him of her. 11. Anastasia Romanova was one of Czar Nicholas II’s children and although she was killed during the Russian Revolution, many people later claimed to be her.

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[April 4, 1961: journal]

Gregory and I get high on pot—with two thirty-year-old girls in our room—old girlfriends of Robert Creeley’s—were they Russian spies?— Were they going to tell Janine on me for trying to caress their hips?— Have I right to ask them questions about menstrual periods?—Gregory takes off his clothes and jumps into bed hugging the fat blonde Helen— but they won’t take off clothes—one too fat?—maybe—Oh girls—in beds.

* * * What harm can come to a lovely soul who sings in the lovely streets of Paris at night—

* * * Editor’s Note: Allen’s friends, especially Burroughs and Corso, treated Peter as less than equal, and in the following journal entry Orlovsky shows his resentment. Over the following months he begins to grow more independent and increasingly believes that he might be better off on his own, away from Ginsberg and the others. Here he also mentions that he has had his first sexual encounter with a woman since leaving New York City. [April 22, 1961: journal]

Avril 22, in the town of Paris, little side street that old mothers walk on [. . .] me on way to gym for an hour exercise in smelly odor of sweat that smells like the name of some cheese that you can’t remember the name of—I go there every other day and get high by doing exercises, yes high as like pot or heroin or benny [benzedrine] only a natural one that’s more akin to the body—[. . .] So here I am in Paris and still the world running past my knee. I come out of the gym after hard workout and feel born again, but the feeling don’t last—but when it’s there and I come out walking down the street seems all’s anew and fresh like after small rain so that everybody’s face seems [new]. I feel I could stop someone and say where are you from? with such curiosity and hope that my eye delighteth and then I come back to my room and say hello happily to everyone and then bam—mope I go and forget to talk and just sit around [and] go blank which I ain’t got nothing against but it’s just a dopey deal.

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Today had loan of car and so drove thru Paris small streets and up to Eiffel Tower past it to Napoleon’s Tomb with Allen, but he just bored with my conversation talk, but we glad of the car to see Paris this way—and he’s getting bad stomach ache now—what’s a matter with him? He says he’s glad he’s got no arranged plans, except to go see Bill in Spain and then maybe come back and stay in Paris and hang around with Gregory for a few months more and Gregory attacking me for my gloomy eyes and the insane way I yap about getting girls—I don’t feel like standing still and taking his yapping when he barks at me and I won’t from now on—I’ll rampage back even if I don’t make sense and start to stammer, stutter with words, and make myself look like a fool, and get all fouled up, get angry and dopey and not listen to sense and sneeze out mean things. The reason I hardly ever answer back is I must be afraid of Gregory and what the hell have I got to be afraid of? One thing though is he talks faster than I do and always seems to make sense, but he constantly throws the talk flame on and I become all ears and withhold what I feel, as if afraid of saying something and of not making enough sense or maybe it’s that I, when I do say something, I say it so confused that I really don’t know what the hell I am talking about. Paris side streets—my first girl, only it was a woman, about forty-three, came spurting hopes of glory and tummy come, except her mouth stunk of years of salami. [. . .] Dreaming [of old] age or fantasizing ahead to that point when I’ll be old and balling with girls of my own age or older—it will be sweet but there’s something I feel about it now still only twenty-seven that somehow makes me not to want to go back now and hug her for the night as she wants me to. [April 29, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Paris to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Well Paris fini now: will be leaving here come Monday for trip down to Cannes, a fairy place where they show movies all the time on the beach and warm water swimming all day. [. . .] Someone here, a colored fellow, actor, [Carl Lee]12 is letting us use his villa by the beach for two weeks—and at Cannes there’s to be a film festival of movies from all over the earth for us to see—Have been doing an awful lot of different things—people—so many—girls in bed with—a different one every night— I’m only bragging to impress upon you how much of a man I am in this world—Someone lent us a car for a few days and so we drove out of Paris a short way to Versailles—a mammoth place and lakes in the shape of a cross—huge long one-piece rectangular lake—trees lined up 12. Carl Lee played Cowboy in the film version of The Connection.

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in rows stretching for miles—So what do you think of me in Paris—did you and Oleg ever imagine when you just got married you’d both have a son who is traveling a fool’s path thru the earth?—I hope I can get an elephant in India. [letter continued: May 1, 1961]

I just learned today is May Day, a holiday, no wonder the stores are closed here. Today last day in Paris for us. Just had some heroin, and so am writing to you a little high, makes me feel a little more gentler. I don’t take it much, so have no worry about me, I’m much too in love with life and girls (cause heroin takes your sex pull away and puts it into dreamy mind drift) to get a habit. I went to the flea market here the other day to buy a knapsack—a good one, for six bucks, second hand, big size—the flea market is huge combo market of new and old things at end of one of the subway stops—gypsies there—everything there to buy, barbells, typewriters, second-hand clothes, jackets, cameras, motor bikes [. . .] Well how are you?—write me—I wonder what you’re up to these days and what gives with jobs or training or the apartment or reading what books or what thinking or any new friends or are you planning to get married again? We met Jim Jones who wrote From Here to Eternity, you know? about the World War II and Japs—he quite a chummy fellow and big time writer with huge pile of money from his novel being in the movies. [. . .] I got a postcard from Irving [Rosenthal] and he said Laff is doing fine though not attending dancing lessons, but is painting a lot under competition from an artist named Bill Heine who is quite a zany fellow and who paints abstract in magic ways. So they have moved to new apartment out of 170 to 704 East 6th Street N.Y.C., the apartment in care of Janine Pommy I guess—though she hasn’t written me all this time—if you see Laff tell him to write me—I hope you are still sending him his welfare money and hope it’s still coming thru? So love to you Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Although Orlovsky and Ginsberg wanted to believe that things were fine back in New York, the scene there had quickly turned into a nightmare. They had left Lafcadio in the care of people who had severe drug problems. Janine Pommy was seriously hooked on amphetamines and quickly lost thirty pounds. Herbert Huncke had his own drug habit and was expecting that the police would pick him

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up at any moment. Bill Heine, Alex Trocchi,13 and Ed Marshall were hooked as well and creating problems for all who knew them. Within a month they were evicted from the old apartment on 2nd Street and moved into an even worse building on the Lower East Side. Rather than feel guilty for leaving Lafcadio with them, Peter preferred to believe that they were doing all right and that things were working out well. In Paris, Peter took heroin himself, so he was in no position to help his brother, and an encouraging letter from Irving Rosenthal helped convince him that all was well back in New York. In his return letter Peter mentions the flicker machine for the first time. Brion Gysin and Ian Sommerville had invented it as a means of inducing visions and hallucinations without the aid of drugs. [May 1, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Paris to Irving Rosenthal]

Dear Irving: Great to get your card of notes on Laff and Janine that immediately cut through all my worry of not knowing what happened—that maybe they all goofed up at 170 and stayed over the month and Molly [landlord] had to call the cops to kick them out and they all landed in jail high on methedrine, such my mind worry went in that direction, but I was glad it all has worked out so swell and that Laff painting you say—fine—what they look like? Only Janine losing thirty pounds I’m sad to hear—I sent her postcards and a long letter but she so far has not answered me—is she mad at me?—no love me anymore?—or too involved in new life to take time to think up a letter? Well I’m sad about that but as long as she’s happy and getting all that meditation in on methedrine or maybe she’s writing me such a long letter over the month now that when she sends it [it will be] more like a book. I’m a little high on H [heroin] now [. . .] I got to start keeping clear of H or I’ll end up in the ditch shivering like a dog in hail—it’s so easy to get here—fellow who sells in the same hotel—Bob Thompson14 is here also and even with a heavy H habit he [is] painting big and small paintings of beautiful trees all different colors—he lucky, got a studio to work in and meet people here to give him show—I sure wonder what he’ll be painting in a few years? He’s been going to the Louvre, I went with him one time and he [drew] Michelangelo’s slave who look like they are being fucked with that expression on their face so it seems or that they had just come and so were satisfied filled with calm and peace and that’s how Michelangelo left them [. . .] 13. Alex Trocchi (1925–1984). Novelist and author of Cain’s Book. 14. Bob Thompson (1937–1966). Artist and friend of Ginsberg’s from New York. He died of a heroin overdose at the age of twenty-nine.

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Boy, is America real bitchy to [Fidel] Castro—what the hell, how stupid can [John] Kennedy be?—it don’t take much to realize that the mass of poor farmer types dig Castro with brother hands and that to plan a petty invasion like the one run by the CIA15 shows America is heading with Kennedy at the helm into lump of shit—opinion around here and in Europe is running high against him [. . .]—it’s all making me ashamed to be an American—and I never felt it so strongly and sharply as now America with knifing Cuba. I shot up some mescaline in the vein a week or so back—not as bad as I thought, though if I did that in 170 [East 2nd Street apartment] might of been frightening, but here no cop worries and social television hookup to my kitchen of political trapedness—no shit—there was one time a day after taking ayahuasca when [Bob] Kaufman’s wife knocked on the door (this was when the campaigning for Presidency was drawing to an end) and I answered—opened the door and there she is carrying under arm bundle of clothes to take to laundromat and her hair was in a whirlpool mess and for a few seconds I was hit, and I mean hit, by the fantasy that she might be Kennedy’s wife coming around to our place to get the vote [. . .]—so it all seemed so real—did I tell you this before?—maybe not, I got real ashamed at these fantasies and sometimes was so taken in by them so real and so true that if I told someone that enormous consequences would occur to me and everyone around me or in the world. [. . .] Brion Gysin around—lives in same hotel here—see him and his flicker machine—made of paper hooked to a phonograph player and flicks different colors onto closed eye-lids brings about pictures—I got one—of huge stone elephants—dozens of ’em going through canyon all in a row—astounded my eyes—also see a lot of roads, like my eye traveling in a car passing through small streets on each side walls of houses and buildings—must be more interesting on mescaline. [. . .] Have to write Marie also—but have to leave for Cannes now so tell her I will on the beach write a letter and that everything is alright. Irving, now that I’ve gotten no letter from Janine saddens me so—will you look upon them and write me how they [are] doing?—I guess she hates me for cutting her off fast—on the dock—and leaving her with Laff—I don’t know—but since they don’t write can you slip me a note soon in Cannes? love and flowers Peter [ca. May 1961: journal]

(Conversation between Allen and Peter in early morning) 15. This is a reference to the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion, which took place in April 1961.

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AG: You been putting me down all this month—that you feel I don’t like you—you continue to be moody—you have put me in a position of insolvable problems in communicating with you—I feel you don’t respond. PO: Have you anything else to say? AG: Yeah, you suddenly go back into another world—a state of mind where contact is cut off and removed—that understanding we had before—shut out communication—you suddenly get a feeling being lost, doomed, and totally alone [. . .] which leaves me all alone also, suddenly cut off from you—feeling deep distrust for you—we later find [it turns] out to be some kind of completely dream-like story in which the neighbors across the street are spying on us—that kind of secret fantasy on your part would really scare me if you did not already later come back happy—having seen it vanish—and it’s especially scary to me since I had that kind of relation with my mother except that she entered permanently into a universe by herself and would never come back and I can’t understand why you, having seen it in your family—brothers—go on playing with it since you know how lost and helpless and unable [to] communicate you become when your brothers do that to you and you know how angry you get with Laff and Nick, when they set up barriers against you and that’s why this month I flipped and yelled at you because you were cutting off from me—without a smile—So I don’t know what to do except wait and have faith because our love moments are deeper than anything else—I guess that’s that! Does that make any sense—I guess it’s all my fault for wanting to screw you? Maybe that’s bad for you—maybe for men—maybe it distracts their sense of identity. But you seem more free of these guilt fantasies than I am about sex—I have fears maybe we have been forcing something wrong, screwing each other—But I went on in the trust that in the end love would answer all fears like that—I still think so—and now I am afraid that I am repulsive in your eye so that if you don’t want to make it with me more—sex—that’s all right. PO: But I just screwed you a couple of days ago—you said I handled you like a girl—holding firm to your hips and moving them so with strong control—you liked that fuck very much. AG: Yes, but this is just my fantasy now—so that if you don’t want to make it with me anymore—so maybe I turn my sex drive elsewhere— it would make it easier for you and me to look in each other’s eyes again—or maybe I should just fuck you and we would both be thrilled because usually you have always had the decision to make love in your hands—though often sometimes it’s been mutual ball which always amazed me—because I think no one can love me as much as I love others—so maybe that’s my problem—I don’t trust your love and put you through torture not realizing you are more true feeling to me than I am to life—except I am hornier to you than you to me.

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* * * Editor’s Note: Running low on money, Orlovsky, Ginsberg, and Corso decided to visit the Cannes Film Festival. They had been invited to live rent-free with the producers of the film The Connection, which was to premiere there. From there they weren’t certain where they would go, but if they could figure out a way to come up with the money they wanted to end up in Tangier to see Burroughs. During this trip, drugs seemed to take center stage. [May 3, 1961: journal]

We got it, a villa in Cannes, right out my window a pineapple tree with a hundred long curved arms to look at and imagine I’m on an island far away from America and also a hill curve in the near distance topped by a long row of trees and in the yard near window is this huge derrick with a man bending over the barrel coils machinery, green pants and blue shirt with oily gloves and a small wrench, a grey hat, stretching his neck looking for stuck tomatoes here and not there among the noise—they’re raising the whole derrick some feet—to get more leverage I suppose—more men have gathered around and I was standing out in the yard watching after being here not more than a half hour looking around putting my clothes away—across the street are rocks and the waterway for miles—twenty feet away from my room—the guy up on the derrick yelled jokingly to me and said you want to help shovel cement to be banged into the earth to make a pillar? “Sure,” I say and give him the okay sign and they go back to work. It’s a big house and we got the downstairs away from the rest of the house—only Cannes is six kilometers away and taxi costs four bucks to Cannes so we have to figure a ride, but then the bus comes a half mile away from here so that will take care of that. I don’t know—if I got high now, I might think I was the only one here in Cannes and that everyone else here kept away to be not near me—it’s all these people I don’t know—what am I going to do with them all?—though they take care of themselves—it’s in their idle moments that I want to save them and bring the final last great party to freedom in heaven on earth, but the noise of the hammer derrick shaking the house, my room, the machine stops to breathe. [May 1961: journal]

Last night we went into Cannes to the Blue Bar near the big main theatre next to the outside cafe tables and crowds lulling around some behind fences and others in groups waiting for Exodus to be over and

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the actors [to] come out, down the guarded hall steps into a crowd of photographers and lights and royal cars and clap, clap, clap comes Peter Lawford with maybe movie star in white dress, even her ankles hidden and among all those heads I could barely see her nose—enthusiasm for Exodus [which] was dull picture, a phony shot to make money by exploiting a situation in Israel. [. . .] Girls on the beach yesterday afternoon—with ice-cream color bathing ass suits—want to lick them all up—and the poor boys who I was told last night by this press woman—when a fast-looking blonde [with] long hair and blue suit all looking movie-ish came to the Blue Note Bar—two girls talking to—a gigolo or something like that, but poor and makes women for money and fancy life of the beach suntan all over his face—golden in fact in that night outside table bar and restaurant—I could be in his shoes, but I don’t have blonde hair to really make it and my nose is too long like shoe-maker’s so that leaves me sitting on the dock at noon time dreaming. Friday: Spent the night in town, big hotel, big bed, big bathtub, long water, small soap, small clean towels, small tiny loose asshole hairs clean and glistening and no dreams came that morning—to go on the street beach where we lay for two hours with bottle of milk and croissants and cupcakes and Tribune newspaper that [reports] the CIA officially was involved in helping the Algerian-French attempted take-over of de Gaulle, and Gary Cooper died of cancer of the asshole alone. The battleship Little Rock in harbor all lit-up that night and sailors I had talked to in bar about Cuba—they thought USA had nothing to do with the fiasco [the Bay of Pigs]—that it was all Cubans among Cubans. Sunday: Day of The Connection showing in Cannes—two hundred seats. Who’s going to be there?—Two hundred Peters and one movie high on heroin. Drove to Antibes, there saw Picasso Museum of drawings and pottery, funny faces curved smile flat dish and knife pointed toward fish—it’s all so beautiful to be here—to drive thru the small village streets going slow, wondering who lives behind each window and doorway alley. [May 1961: poem] Morning again And what’s cooking me at the beach, alone Thank god if I were a bird I’d dive into the sea at full speed And do some hollering to the fish race

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But I’m a man lying on my belly exposing my ass to the sun the beach lying flat too The Tribune a little square pillow Thank God I’m alone I can be sad and happy cry and play with myself and think in any direction I want It’s May and all I’m doing is playing [May 20, 1961: journal]

Back from three days in St. Tropez, down the coast from Cannes, us three ducks quacking in expensive puddles and costly water and fabulous mud pie food dishes, big long meals on small tables, the fast walk of waiters in expensive shoes, the color of their shirts made to order the same as the color of my Catalonian tomato sauce—a red car we drove to the beach where for the first time all three got into water since being in South France—Allen, Gregory, and me, in order. “I didn’t know you could swim like that, Gregory, very good,” says Allen. I was amazed by all the richness and the big house we slept in. Their soft sheets and bed big [enough] for horse and room for me and Allen—he got me so hot one night—by tickling my balls and my hard-on shot high and I wanted to push his head down on me and held off while he stroked my balls and the shot of hotness again came and finally decided to direct him down on me and he went. I wanted my cock surrounded by that mouthy cunt. I got what I wanted. It was the dirty hot I felt and was even more so when it cut thru the dirtiness to swift come, as if my cock was wrestling in Allen’s mouth for all it was worth and also knowing my cock knew what to do. So together with all the newness of being in new town, surrounded by different people and coast views and mountain drives and big ass bathing suit girls and free meals, the hot bed blow time was fit into it all even more. And now we are still back in Cannes—high on heroin—had to lay down for [upset] stomach and time passes and Gregory and [Carl Lee] come in my room downstairs here and pull out their shares of H to sniff and I watch, come over to them—how they spill their shit all over—after they left I go collecting what they scattered all over the bureau marble top and into open top drawer of clothes—the shit hanging there in little lumps—I collect with razor edge carefully—the fucking dopes because the little what I have I use carefully and when they run out they come over to me—like Gregory did last time when we all got dressed up and

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about to go out. “Oh, Peter, I would love just to get some shit—I’ll be your friend the rest of my life—come on baby—it would make me feel so good—don’t deny me this” and I did refuse feebly only having enough little for me and now I see how they got each little pack of their own—how hard it is to get shit around this part of France, to waste it so, dropping it without knowing or looking—fuck them when they run out—so I just got to turn on in secret that’s all. My stomach feels better but when I woke up from bed, not having fallen asleep really, but only [dozed a] few minutes they came in and I don’t know what they were talking about but they got high and walked out into the night air—St. Tropez was a ball—all that richness and food and new to my ears to hear Jack [Jacques Stern]16 talk about politics and India that he visited. It even made Gregory want to go to India immediately, so now we all be there in near future—Hooray, India, we come and you will now know we passed through your belly and sniffed your funeral pyres and seen arms crackling and eyes popping like sparks and fingernails turning black and crisp like twigs. [. . .] Another day now, Saturday afternoon, the sun a little path thru tall thin door. Allen going for a country ride with Shirley [Clarke]17 into small town not far from here—it’s a bright sunny day and here I am high at typewriter all to myself. All the letters I got to write, the windy sun blowing the beach up. So far in Cannes I’ve seen a lot of asses and toes and fancy dresses and the sitters at cafe tables and chairs and all that café au lait—Stella18 still here in Cannes, she will be around for another week—funny, tall, olive-shaped girl, English, likes me a lot—said to her four days ago when sitting at the Blue Bar, the only one in Cannes where all the [people] like me hang out and reporters and camera fiends attached to papers and magazines stay around—about four of whom have interviewed us in one way or another and each one tends to buy us rich meals ending with strawberries and cream fresh like sour cream only not sour—so we were sitting together and I asked Stella if she would like to ball for an hour at her place and she liked the idea and so we did—Gregory don’t like her and thinks she is a freak of some kind and wonders how I could ever make it with her. I saw an eleven-year-old girl on the beach yesterday and much surprised to see her bathing suit so filled out, ass so round and mature and full—my eyes followed her as she played with her smaller brothers and sisters making sand piles and knocking them down again—not having on titty strap but blue sweater not buttoned and her small swells in the distance from me, last night thinking of her while attempting 16. Jacques Stern (1932–2002). A wealthy friend that the group had known in Paris. 17. Shirley Clarke (1919–1997). Experimental filmmaker who adapted the play The Connection into a movie. 18. Stella Bittleson was an English student whom Peter met in France. Later she would move to New York City to study dance and acting.

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jerk off, but could not come the heroin working, taking all of my body elsewhere—I would just like to look at her if we were alone together and going for how her eyes would stare with curiosity and not try to fuck her, but just put my cock near the opening of her tight cunt for her to rub up and down, just to let her play with me would be so lovely—a lot of things like that could happen in the world, but never do—in Dostoevsky it did, when someone did something in bed with eight-year-old and he later killed himself for doing that kind of stuff—which was clipped out of his book by Czar of Russia. Am taking too much junk, have to learn how to stop. For the past three days, two or three times a day in the vein and today the third day I seem to have trouble hitting my vein. It took four tries—the needle is so big that it makes a big hole and so when I miss, blood drops out and rolls around my arm, that pretty red line pure rose color on my yellow skin becoming tan under the beach sun. [. . .] just have to stop taking, none tomorrow or else I’ll be sick and flat feeling gloom doom and I get so high like I am now that to keep writing is tough shit for me to keep up.

* * * Editor’s Note: After hosting them on his yacht for a week, their wealthy friend Jacques Stern provided the fare the three poets needed to sail to Tangier, where Burroughs was now living. On their way they stopped off in Aix-en-Provence to visit museums and see the scenery that had inspired Cezanne and Van Gogh. On May 30 they boarded the ferry in Marseilles that took them to Morocco. [June 1, 1961: journal]

What a lousy fucked-up deal—the three of us arriving from Marseilles here to Tangier and no sooner do we get off the boat do the stupid passport entry officials of Morocco together with the American Embassy officials order Gregory back to the boat whose next stop is Casablanca—where more of the same officials will determine if Gregory can stay in Morocco to wait for renewal of his passport or whether he will be sent back to Marseilles—there to be put into prison until the State Department decides what to do with him—what a shame. We thought we’d three be happy—meeting B.B. [Bill Burroughs] again— remembering forgotten things of Tangier—how certain corners looked— steps [filled with] bearded men and the Socco Chico’s cafes and the mussels packed on top of bundles—the marketplace where dozens of vegetables lay on rock pavement for sale by Berber white cloth wrapped old women—their toothless smiles—the mint tea and Arab music—and

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now in my room tonight taking two shots [of heroin] and no Gregory or Allen—they both headed for Casablanca for trouble [. . .] [Gregory was] using his brother’s first name which can cause him being sent back to America, passport taken away for life, and if the government is really stupid mean, they can put him in jail for two years, all for using his brother’s name and not his own, which he did out of fear of not being given a passport to begin with for having a criminal record he got when younger. [. . .] It’s raining outside my Tangier window and the train chugs as a mosque circles my bed where I sit up writing late at night the open windowed window

What’s going to happen to Gregory?—everything will be all right—it will all be straightened [out] in Casablanca—they will be here by bus tomorrow night—or Gregory commits suicide for fear of being sent back to jail and Allen hits the U.S. American Ambassador and gets arrested and jailed and I get a junk habit and get constipated and forget to take Ex-Lax which I finally take after Bill’s persistence, but don’t work and the shit cakes up and starts to expand like bread yeast and explodes in large intestine which poisons my system, floods me to death—Allen gets murdered in jail or gets out of jail and meets this kid friend of Bill’s here—they fall in love and take off, the three of them, to India or back to America to join politics and fight for passport renewals or save the world [from] stupid rulers.

* * * Editor’s Note: In spite of Peter’s humorous fears, Allen was able to help smooth over Gregory’s passport difficulties and within a few days they were all reunited in Tangier. It doesn’t take Peter long to make the decision to travel on alone, however. He had been growing increasingly frustrated by his relationship with Allen, and in Tangier Burroughs was joined by Corso in abusing and ridiculing Orlovsky. [June 13, 1961: journal]

Took too much opium two days ago and it hung in my stomach, [made me] throw up for days—and now it’s gone but feel lethargic—when my next check comes I plan to take off to Istanbul alone—my orders of

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heroin didn’t come and they should of been here by now—no dreams from the opium though I had many didn’t remember—have to get a map of from here to India.

* * * When something and nothing get mixed together you get anything

* * * Editor’s Note: By this time Peter’s daily routine revolved around drugs. The habit he had begun in France continued, and he felt more and more isolated. Finally he began to make plans to leave Ginsberg and travel on to the eastern Mediterranean alone, initially heading for Istanbul. Burroughs had always been jealous of Orlovsky’s relationship with Allen, and on this trip Corso joined Burroughs in making Peter feel unwelcome. Allen couldn’t bring himself to argue with his old mentor Burroughs and so Peter was left to defend himself from all the unpleasantness. Peter was also troubled by family matters, even though he was thousands of miles away. The Orlovsky family would always be very much on his mind. [mid-June 1961: journal]

In a way Marie’s smart—working for a while as baby care technician and piling up saved money to lay off and take vacation for five months—and she’s only twenty-one of age, and has a twin brother who is the opposite in this way—he keeps to his mother’s house and her protection and food support and she puts up with it just as long as he don’t get violent or welfare cut off money to her and for him—though old now. I’m only sad when I feel cut off from the world and start thinking or fantasizing that that is a permanent thing. Also got a tummy ache—from the bit of opium I swallowed last night and from smoking too much and not eating—which I’m going to do now—vegetable soup—using the vegetable water to work it and not tap water as used to before—Allen learned this from Ahmed [Yacoubi]19—also have a jerk-off poem I want to type up from notebook. Windy Tangier day that also spreads my hair for a bird to land on, possibly thinking it a bush. 19. Ahmed Yacoubi (1931–1985). Moroccan artist and friend of Paul Bowles.

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[June 20, 1961: journal]

What times—Broke as a brick in the stomach no heroin—sitting in Socco Chico—I’ll be off for Istanbul come beginning of next month—off on my own. Away from Allen and Gregory who are getting me down—somehow to arrive in India—where my $100 a month should be enough to live on—Have been depressed this past week—going along with it—the body can take hunger for a while—how long I got to figure out—and when there’s no money I get very depressed—but have been getting high on pot these past nights and reading Shakespeare’s King Henry the VI—on now to the next part—once my food [problem] is solved—and no worry about food then I can read all [to my] heart’s desire—I hope I can get H [heroin] in India—the ganja [marijuana] there is supposed to be great and keeps you high for sixteen hours on just a few puffs from pipe—so Jacques Stern says—and I go there and live in small room in hotel or something cheap—hotel may be too expensive—only problem is how I get there—where can I get boat for Istanbul? How much?—and have to wait in Istanbul for a month until more money comes in and then get another boat that will take me nearer to India—and wait in that place a month until money comes again for another boat—maybe three boat trips will do it all—Have to find out travel expenses at American Express Travel Agency—Politics getting so dirty I can’t follow it!—The mean Senator B. Goldwater20—calling Castro a cheap and dirty dictator—he’s having his fun saying as he likes.

* * * Editor’s Note: In the following letter Peter outlines his plans to visit the town in Russia where his father was born. Because he has always been so straightforward with his mother, it is interesting to note that he does not tell her how badly Burroughs and Corso have been treating him, or the fact that Allen has failed to defend him. These are the real reasons that he is going to leave Ginsberg and company to travel on his own. [June 25, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Dear Kate: Sorry for not sending you note sooner, but blocks in the way. No had money for two weeks: all of us broke and me sick for one week: 20. Barry Goldwater (1909–1998). Conservative Republican senator from Arizona who later became the party’s 1964 nominee for president.

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dysentery. Don’t know how I got it but when it came wouldn’t go away [. . .] black shit like a waterfall only syrupy, stomach trouble—no desire to eat—bloated stomach, some medicines made me throw up, lost weight, kilos, and the thing is I don’t know what did it—ate something in Arab section of town (called Medina), in cheap 25¢ dinner meals—I just got to watch myself more carefully—and farting like a car—other American and English kids here came down sick too—Allen too but he noticed it right away and gulped mass-doses of medications and it went right away, but me, I always got to learn once by trial. I got up early this morning and came alone here to cafe on Blvd. Rue Pasteur to sip cafe au lait and croissant (a roll shaped like horseshoe) and look out of window—view of harbor bay boats in port—misty but sunny and breezy and dig the view of people passing by—all mixtures of all different races colliding on the street—just to toilet—gray not black shit this time—look like cat vomit [. . .]—I feel like Oleg continually complaining—but I must of by now developed real tough strain of dysentery bacteria so I’ll make doctor again and get anti-biotic shots—I guess I was being broke for last two weeks and eating cheap—borrowing and getting credit here and there of what few people we know here—other people were broke also—Bill B. [Burroughs] too and Arab painter we know from here last time— boyfriend of famous writer of stories, novels, short stories, articles in Esquire and travel magazines, Paul Bowles,21 who is long time resident here, since 1934—he wrote book called The Sheltering Sky—his most well known and others—you heard of?—I am sure he knows Dorothy Parker.22 So this Arab painter—Ahmed Yacoubi—very great fellow—likes me too. We go over his apartment—$16 a month—beautiful place, apartment building with great view of Mediterranean Straits of Gibraltar—that rock in the distance thirty miles away that you can see on clear days and see even better on clearer days—and his apartment is real Arab looking—rugs hanging from the wall—ancient boxes and Arab silver plates—his Arab clothes—he speaks fairly good English-Arab-Spanish and French—his father too, lives in Fez—an older city nearby but less visited than Tangier because it’s situated inland. He’s also good cook and friend of Tennessee Williams23 the known play-writer who bought a painting of Ahmed’s a month ago when he was here for a week seeking sexy fifteen-year-old boys. Left cafe to go home and meet Allen, choosing my streets carefully on the way on the possibility I might meet him heading toward me at the cafe where we said before we might meet. Found him coming up a street and we—12:30 now—get in taxi—very cheap here—to come to Dr. Anderson’s house-clinic—in time for 12:30 appointment (on a Sunday). 21. Paul Bowles (1910–1999). American author who had settled in Tangier permanently with his wife, the author Jane Bowles. 22. Dorothy Parker (1893–1967). Writer, critic, and satirist. 23. Tennessee Williams (1911–1983). Playwright and author of A Streetcar Named Desire.

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When I was sick in bed he came, Allen and Gregory present—he took a look around upon entering and said “Are you Beatniks?” “Only that the papers would have us so,” Corso said or Allen. After he was thru—gave me a shot to relieve pain—Allen told him we are broke and so can’t pay you now so he said considering the poor condition you’re all in I’ll only charge 500 francs—equals $1 instead of 2000 francs (4 dollars)—for that shot. So he’s alright. Welsh origin, old white-haired Harvard professor of biology looking man. So I’ve been getting homesick for all you family and friends and Janine [Pommy Vega] etc. and for New York City and Flushing and Jamaica—to sit in Bickford’s scrambled eggs and coffee that I miss so much24—since I was in bed sick—dreaming back thru time—the old familiar places and faces—I will write all of you happy nostalgic letters in this week coming up. And then I head on, alone to Middle East—Lebanon, Beirut— Istanbul, Turkey—maybe in Istanbul I try enter Russia and visit Oleg’s birthplace, Tiflis [now known as Tbilisi]—but travel into Russia may be too expensive for my $100 a month allowance—maybe into Persia— Palestine for sure—will try and give poetry lectures there and seminars at universities—thank god I have a copy of Beatitude with big chunk of my poetry in it25—have you seen issue of it?—I think not, so therefore I will have Lawrence Ferlinghetti of City Lights Book Store send you and Oleg a copy. I will try to get around as many countries in Middle East as possible before heading for India—maybe ten countries if I’m real lucky. I am going to do this alone for a couple of reasons—one—because I’m attracted to the idea of being on my own in new strange countries— two—Allen wants to stay in Tangier another month or two—traveling inland to the Grand Atlas mountains where Marrakech, an old university city, lays and other places even older—so we will part for two or four months or more if I get a fascination for traveling in Middle East and Far East and meet up with some religious sects like Sufis in India mountains—but whatever—it will be good for me to be on my own—I’ll get real practical about money and learn languages faster when I have to speak for myself—the only thing is all the political unrest in Middle East—Arab-Jew bickerings, riots, and battles and dictatorships in some countries like Turkey and Cairo—military dictators—but me, I stay clear of politics and only sniff flower buds in the warm market places. So you have no fear—have faith—of me getting carried away in the night secretly to Russia or by U.S. C.I.A. agents. I’ll be fine and will send you postcards and toward end of month address for you to send my V.A. check to. Yes it will all work out. [. . .] Now 1 AM night—back home here, Allen and I side by side, reading—he huge volume of Edgar Allan Poe, me a book on Java religion 24. Bickford’s was a New York City chain of cafeterias. 25. Peter is referring to his appearance in Beatitude Anthology (City Lights, 1960).

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called Subud—something like Zen Buddhism only less dogma to it, very interesting and there are groups of centers throughout Europe and Middle East—New York City too. [letter continued: June 26, 1961]

Monday now. We are at the beach about ten of us roaming Americans, all young in early twenties—I can’t go swimming because of jaundice—I understand from Irving Rosenthal who Laff knows (a teacher of biology, poetry, journal editor, now visiting Cuba is thinking of teaching there); wrote me saying Laff came down with jaundice also and Elise Cowen and maybe Janine too. [. . .] I would like to be home now, nostalgic for it, sadly so, but I think I will stay and travel around as much as I can either on my own or with Allen, though now I have desire to go off on my own. I just can’t wait to get to Istanbul and stand on beach shore of Black Sea and look toward Russia across the way at the other side from Turkey lay Russia and inland two or three hundred miles lay Tiflis what Oleg comes from, so I be glad to stand there dreaming and Oleg told me he was in Istanbul for awhile [. . .]—lots of drugs there too and good hashish. So that’s me! And to think I was going to be a farmer at sixteen with cow plop and a twig of hay under my tongue—thank God I’m off that kick. [. . .] Allen went to party dressed as Indian, Gregory and Bill B. [Burroughs] dressed as Life and Time reporters with cameras—lot of people going—[. . .] I won’t be leaving here until got enough loot to make Istanbul—my jaundice is improving though my shit is still grey loose stuff—nasty business so I keep myself clean and wash all over—I hear from Allen the party was pretty funny last night. Gregory got mad at some people. [. . .] We three have been without money now for over two weeks which is good in a way—makes us spend less money on not essential things—all this much to Gregory’s dislike but he gets used to it—he also expecting $200 for manuscript of his book he sold to a dealer. He wants to return to U.S. now—two years he’s been in Europe—girl there and family [he] wants to see though today he gets talking not really wanting to go back to the U.S. We are sitting in Socco Chico square small, in Arab section of town, a cafe on each side with chairs and small round marble tables outside, great to sit for hours and watch Arabs, Berber white-veiled robed woman and Arab woman in grey or black robes pass, Spanish, French—actually a variety of Arab races here—I don’t know them all or where they come from—except by head wear—turban and bands— donkeys pass carrying packs of dirt from cleaning out cellars—no cars allowed in this part of town—the streets are too small. Love and flowers, Peter

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P.S. [. . .] Jack [Kerouac] in Northport, he heading for Mexico this summer. Has Laff gone over and paid a social friendly visit to him yet? [July 1961: journal]

Poem: Imperfect Tributes line 11: Our baldness, our gray hairs, our pursy habits of body Note: After reading this line of poem in proofs of Alan Ansen (Disorderly Houses) I took liberty to point out change of pursy habits of body to pussy habits of body—I told Allen [Ginsberg]—he thought Ansen would get mad, touchy—better not—but I did anyway [. . .] Let’s see now what Ansen thinks and how he takes this liberty of mine to criticize or suggest a change of phrase in poem?

* * * Editor’s Note: Alan Ansen was visiting the group in Tangier that summer and for a change, Peter offered his opinion as to how Ansen might improve a line in one of his poems. Ansen did not change the word in the poem and it remained as “pursy habits of body” on page 43 of Disorderly Houses (Wesleyan University Press, 1961) after publication. [July 12, 1961: journal]

We at sun beach, Tangier—Ansen, Allen, Gregory and me—much talk about poetry—Gregory getting drunk—starts shooting his mouth off, at me—“His (Peter’s) poetry I don’t care for at all”—I knew he felt this, but he never before became so frank as to how he felt—this was all right by me—he was talking of becoming [a] critic—he feels he owns poetry [and] said so—I then, about five minutes later, after Gregory came back from chasing girls or ordering another round of drinks, I told Ansen what Corso had told me, in a conversation between us two, that I should not write poetry or paint but do something else—like play baseball, swim, travel—Allen interjected “that’s not right”—Ansen listening and [I] forget what he may of commented to this—I then went on to say that Gregory all along, from Paris in 1957 where I wrote my first two poems, though he said he liked them and said they showed promise of great poet to come—had felt an ambiguousness toward my poetry—that ambiguousness I began to feel in years later on un-verbal level and only now has this come to clarity—I am glad—about twenty minutes later getting more drunken the three of them—Allen and Corso got into verbal hassle over Allen’s statement that he had supported Gregory in Paris to here—and that Gregory had contributed very little—8,000 francs for fare to Cannes from Paris for the three of us—and had spent $100 on

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clothes for himself and gambled about 100 or 200 in Cannes’ casino and lost and Allen gave him $20 to gamble again—and Gregory tried seven times to convince me to give him $10 to gamble and I held out, telling him it’s best my $100 a month go for food and essentials and that was that—he also put the touch on young American cat for $30 or $40 to gamble with and lost and never paid up [. . .]—feel Allen and Gregory are creepy cancer to my soul.

* * * Editor’s Note: Orlovsky’s Second and Third “Sex Experiments” appear in his journal at this point. They were later published in the book Straight Hearts’ Delight. It was a very creative period for Peter, and on July 17, 1961, he wrote a rare short story that he titled “The Two Who Came to Tangier and Got Busted.” It told of a young couple who were traveling through Europe and decided to make some easy money in Tangier by buying drugs to resell in Paris. Their scheme was unsuccessful, but it appears to be based on something that Peter knew about firsthand. That story was published in 1968 in Allen DeLoach’s anthology The East Side Scene. The last letters that Peter wrote from Tangier before leaving on his own for the Eastern Mediterranean were to his family. Even though it had been months since he left New York, he continued to give brotherly advice to his sister. He still wasn’t aware that Lafcadio had been through a rough time while living with Janine Pommy, Bill Heine, and Herbert Huncke. They had introduced the twenty-one-year-old to a variety of vices including an assortment of drugs, all of which he was ill-equipped to handle. [July 26, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Oleg and Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Oleg: Got your letter with Marie’s, glad to hear from you, for I was wondering if ever I would get reply—my hepatitis fine, over with it. Yes, Laff had same thing and he over it too, thank god. My traveling prospects fine—I am now in Tangier—lovely here and lovely young Arab girlfriends. I have decided to travel along to Istanbul and possibly your home town Tiflis [Russia] and overland on to India—will take me three or four or six months or one year to get to India—I do this all alone, by myself—you ask how come I decided to travel by myself?—Well, many reasons—most of all because I want to be alone and traveling by myself—I feel when I am by myself that I learn more and do things more the way I want to do things—I also find that when I am by myself in a foreign country that I learn that language faster than when I am with

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other friends—there are other reasons too—one is that there are certain different understandings and ideas and ways of feeling and thinking between me and Allen and Gregory and Bill B. that—that it’s over differences of feeling and thinking that I have decided to take off on my own and plan things the way I want to plan them instead of hanging around Allen and Gregory and Bill and continually listening to what they say—the specific difference between me and Allen and Gregory and Bill is that I feel there is a God in all of us that wants the universe to come together on a huge bed of love and Allen and Gregory and Bill feel that the God of War is the god that wins out in the end and so all they do is think about death and how they are going to feel about death when they are old—I feel that there is a vast beauty in all of us that must come together before we die to make for a total love hum that will bring divine joy and ecstasy to the universe—they feel that kind of thinking and feeling is doomed—so they call me an Idealist with a one track mind of thinking and feeling. It is as simple as that, Oleg, and that’s the main reason I decided now to travel alone—though we may all meet in India somewhere on some street corner or in some field or in some temple or in some huge crowd. I will be getting an Italian ship from Gibraltar on the 30th of July that will take me to Patras, Greece, [arriving] August 4th. Once I land at Patras I take train to Athens—a short ten hour ride—near Athens is the port where I can get Turkish ferry boat to Istanbul—the whole trip from Tangier to Istanbul is costing me just under 100 bucks. I be very glad to go there—I didn’t know that you were there for so long as one year, but if I had paid attention to what you were talking about in 8th Street room when you would talk about your experiences and travels into different lands and countries—I would of remembered you said that you were in Istanbul one year [. . .]. Yes I guess there are new buildings going up all over Turkey—it’s pretty cheap to live there—tho I see by the papers that the cheapest country of all to live in is Cairo—so Cairo is cheaper than even Tangier. I also hope to get there and see all those Egyptian mummies and tombs and maybe I find a little treasure to give you so you have pile of money for old age vacation. [letter continued: July 28, 1961]

Dear Marie: In two days I get on boat for Patras, Greece, and from there take train for ten hours and land in Athens and there be amid the olden temples and marble columns and statues of Apollo’s naked body and fine chest and curve of back and ass. They were great artists and makers of beautiful statues and there’s lots to see there, but I really want to get to Istanbul and stand on the shore of the Black Sea and look toward Russia where

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Oleg was born and do some wandering. Will write you letter from that shore. Turkey interesting too—has lots of mosques (churches) of funny looking shape and colors—and then I got to learn how to talk Turkey. I know some, few though, Arabic words—and if I was going to stay in Tangier for a year I would get me a few Arabic girlfriends and boyfriends and that way would very easy learn how to speak their language. It’s early morning here now—bright hot sun but the breeze off from bay cools. [. . .] Your other letter sounds fine, cheerful in fact though a little too much worried about wise guys who bug you on the street. Well, that’s what happens at the beach sometimes—one way to get rid of those wolves is to sit near big family on beach and then when a wolf spots you he is less likely to bug you because he thinks that you are a member of that family. That’s one way—what you think?—try it—pick some big family who is going to stay on beach for hours and eat their lunch there. So you sit next to them and you look like part of them so that when a wolf comes along he is going to be embarrassed and shy to start messing round. [July 28, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tangier to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Dear Kate: I am still in Tangier and it gets more beautiful as day by day comes and goes. There’s a fair on now, an Arab one, full of music and dancing girls and voices. The head of Morocco is here also, the Sultan—I forget his exact name—very young, good looking fellow—saw him amid huge crowd along the streets when the Sultan first came to town. [. . .] I got letter from Marie and Oleg—was glad to hear from him. I had wanted to write you two days before this but got so caught up in things that I kept postponing it—Allen got back two days ago from Marrakech, a big town inside Morocco very old and still has wild looking touches to it. [I] have been going down to beach a bit during the day for sun and swim—and taking long walks around Tangier and in back of Tangier to small mud houses and villages—very lovely at night. The music they play at night I hear in the distance. Love and Flowers Peter [July 30, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Gibraltar to Allen Ginsberg and friends]

Hello All: Hello to Ahmed [Yacoubi] and Paul [Bowles] and dreamy Bill [Burroughs]: Glad to be gone, funny high pill (psilocybin, etc.) feeling when in plane about to take off—this was it feeling, no turning back and the funny fear of going off into future unknown. See you all in a decade—twelve

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hours walking today all around Gibraltar—dug the Moorish castle and Middle Hill;26 jerked off up there facing blue Mediterranean window looking east and came nibbling on tit, little point of a girly rock—Slept out in park last night—in two hours my boat comes in—cheap eating in canteen here—rolls and coffee for breakfast [. . .] Gregory said we should have a talk—and alas—that never came to pass—and Bill too—here’s 500 francs not had to spend [. . .] Lost my ballpoint pen—Thank god I got my sneakers—and hello to huge hunk of funny fellow [Alan] Ansen. Still think I’m commie on firing squad going to kill you?—It’s not that you got eight years more experience than me, as you said, but that the kind of experience is important—and I got kinds of experience you don’t have and never heard of—interesting inscription on Moorish castle gate—“Praise Be To The God That Lasts.” “Lasts” is great word—cause man is only God that lasts. When am I ever going to finish Gregory’s book?—It may be as bad as LeRoi’s book of poems.—Didn’t have the heart to tell him—Will be glad to be in Turkey. Love, from God in me— Peter [July 30, 1961: journal]

7:30 AM: Hello Oleg’s land, here I come. So far, in Gibraltar, last night slept out on park bench, even the combined light of all the little stars I saw wouldn’t keep me warm—I’m doing fine, only spent $1 in the day and a half here. Early I wake and had plenty of questions for the three cops I saw on the main stony street. And now I bought bread, three of ’em for three pennies and coffee in coffee shop, to sit and think of my ship to Greece. I’m fine and glad to be away from Allen. And now for another walk. Yesterday evening, trying to get atop the rock but was turned down by army guards, because it was just five minutes after sunset—so today I get to see those apes27 and top piece of rock. I just saw a grey horse, harnessed to a buggy on the thin street. At the airport, where my knapsack was overnight, took a crap that brought extreme pleasure. 7 PM now, on ferry boat at Gibraltar that takes me out to an Italian ship in the harbor still—behind me [is the] Rock of Gibraltar. [August 1, 1961: journal]

One day out at sea now—on way to Greece. Am taking vitamins and plan to spend, be a cheapskate—live cheap, so be able to travel more—Middle East, here I come, near where my father was born. 26. Middle Hill is on the northern end of the Rock of Gibraltar. 27. Gibraltar is famous for the Barbary macaques that live there.

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[August 2, 1961: journal]

My ship stopped in Naples. Walked through about fifteen churches and thought reason Catholic church is so popular is because there’s so much of it, all the art and sculpture and decoration and build-up over the eyes is vast. It’s all silent church, but confessions, mass, etc. speak directly. [August 5, 1961: journal]

Today Piraeus—and this evening Athens—for no more than five days and then to the thieving gossipy Istanbul—one night saw a falling star. [August 6, 1961: journal]

Got high, much to my funny spooky horror, but it was all right and interesting tho paranoid as hell. Me and two other Americans sat on street in doorway next to Greek musicians and slowly after we got high on pot, people [became] curious, gathered around and looked many times and more came—and it was all simple but got hung-up worry-like with them—were they police—and they know we wanted to screw their daughters and talk politics? Well, I guess I took them wrong and so felt imaginary fantasy danger, so didn’t altogether have a good mind flow

Peter Orlovsky posing for a souvenir picture on the Acropolis at the Parthenon, August 1961, Athens. Photo Courtesy of the Peter Orlovsky Archive, University of Texas.

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time. Well fuck it, there’s always many more chances, some highs [are] like bad lays. Funny that it’s not like when I was younger and got high for the first hundred times, then it was a ball, and beautiful. Now I get almost drunk and paranoiac and worry, all a cheap high. Up to me to change that! Have to go now to see if [I have] mail and info on how to get to Istanbul. Hope I meet a girl today [on] walk. [August 7, 1961: journal]

Goodbye Greece, I got on the ship so fast, I haven’t had time to look out the window at your land and harbor and Piraeus or whatever it is. Fourth deck class, $16 for two or so days, no food, have to buy, not bad, other American on board. [ca. August 11, 1961: journal]

Have been in Istanbul two and a half days now sitting in coffee cafe where two men are smoking with opium-like pipes and bottle and hose to the mouth. Got up early. Am always talking to lots of people. [August 15, 1961: journal]

Funny day, took becadine pills and so calm. Walking around to consulate for visas to more of Middle East. Was drawing square beside university and got dizzy smoking. Met American girl, plays cello, chase her and fuck her? No—some other time. In bed. University noises, dormitory, a square building shape. Turkish music rocks back and forth across dark square courtyard inside. Washed my dungarees and drank too much soda. Should be studying my Spanish now. Codeine just wants me to lay back and dream sleep— I think it a goof to take it—but then great to dream but no get study Spanish done. Am wondering if heroin is such a good thing. Will see if I get work done or goof off thing? Got vaccine shots and cholera and typhoid at army dispensary and they wanted dollar but I just walked out, not paying.

* * * Editor’s Note: Although Peter wanted to visit his father’s birthplace in Russia, he discovered that it was too expensive and required additional paperwork and visas, so he decided to move on to Beirut, Lebanon, instead. Without Allen to plan the trip, Peter was free to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, which was very liberating for him.

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[August 17, 1961: journal]

Moving thru Istanbul on way through Syria to Lebanon, Beirut. Inland sun hotter than Istanbul sea breeze. All right—everything fine. What [would happen] if I threw my money away? Shudder to think. [August 18, 1961: journal]

In Aleppo [Syria]—Great town not far from Turkish border. Pen on blink, shitty, cheaper. Coffee and rolls, people not bad. Interesting, probably more so than Beirut. [August 21, 1961: journal]

Am in Beirut. Pleasant place—Meet guilty American law student with bad eyes who said there’s too many poor [people] in Cairo. [. . .] He wanted to help. Couldn’t see any way to [do it], so said only thing was to flee into hiding in America. The hiding in America to get away from helping the poor. Many people don’t want to travel to Egypt [because of the poverty]. So feel better to complain about poorness there than here, if they lived [there] which they couldn’t imagine unless flood or war or H-bomb—but if flood always welfare to lend a helping hand. It is rich here, 7-Ups, Schlitz beer.

* * * Editor’s Note: Once Peter arrived in Cairo, Egypt, he began making sketches in his notebook as he visited the famous ancient sites and museums. In those days tourists were still allowed to climb to the top of the pyramids and Peter did exactly that. While resting at the top, he made notes in his journal and sketched the surrounding countryside. [August 25, 1961: journal]

There’s Cairo and tower amid white grey stones. Small huge buildings— much green and pufftt noises. Pine trees making squares. The streaks of the titty desert views. The belly mounds. the eight pyramids I see in distance, two larger. And across Cairo green valley or long cliff of desert land. The straight road into Cairo from pyramid top. I see army camps along desert border, green tents. Where the sun is, it is white, on other side of sky it is blue. And a smoky business haze over city I see from top of pyramid. That looks like a graveyard to my right. Mostly yellow stones. Ya have to waiver responsibility if [you] climb pyramid alone. [. . .] I see couple white tents surrounded by flat yellow yards. The sun and pyramid rocks seem very peaceful and friendly.

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In spite of all the nationalism of which I know not much, there’s not much police meanness or French-like riot squad cars. Have seen hardly any use of police here, except one carrying poor crying boy to someplace for something. But lots of army surrounding government buildings and houses, but not as bad as Turkey. Arabs very friendly on the whole. I trust them. [Herman] Melville, in Cairo, at pyramids was scared crawling inside. He might have gotten robbed or knifed. I’m glad to be alive, Maybe I can still be president of U.S. I’m getting close to the age— Ya know

I would like to get down into Sudan and Ethiopia and British Somaliland. I got to learn how to live and travel cheap. How can I do that? Already I spend too much in hotel here—about 90¢ a night, almost $30 a month. In youth hostel I could spend only ten piastres a night. Stayed awake most of night. Opium not too strong—dreaming—didn’t write down. Feel now, this morn, very calm. Went bargaining around for soap. One Arab in gown told me to get out of his store. I left bowing and went in further search for soap. Got some from kids who ran tobacco store, 2 1/2 piastres. I just was wondering how much do the poor help the poor? The rich don’t particularly help the rich—and the poor? [August 25, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cairo to Kate Orlovsky]

What say Kate: Have been in Cairo, am sitting in cafe this morning—just got up early. Many people, mostly poor trying to sell goods of all kinds about in the streets now. I was in Lebanon, Beirut, for two days. Not near interesting as Cairo—Took train thru Turkey and Syria to Lebanon and at Beirut got boat to Port Said in Egypt and train from Port Said to Cairo—very strange and interesting to travel on my own—sometimes spooky—but I love it. Always people here and there who speak English. Love—your funny sun Peter [August 25, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cairo to the Orlovsky family]

Good Bees: Hello to you all from Egypt-land. [. . .] Cairo big like New York City, but not nearly so crowded though more different variety of wear

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and robes and night gowns that the young and old wear all day and night—very cool looking, would get me one but I got clothes already so don’t need as of yet but when my clothes wear out—I guess I be in India by that time—then I get Indian clothes cause they be cheaper than European clothes—so that’s that. Have been here four days and walk around in and out of streets and saw pyramid, ya know that huge building? Climbed to the top and sat there a while and drew and wrote and copied some of the names carved in stone of past visitors and kids, for fun, for me to see. Like lovers carve in trees—did Oleg carve heart for you of you and he in tree when ya both were inexperienced and young and damaging other’s trees? I did when thirteen in Flushing. Anyway—here I am—[. . .] Met some nice Arabs here who speak words I know. One who runs museum and we have tea and talk about Arab old Egyptian art and history—and religion. I look at his collection and ask questions. Lots to do. Feel very lively and so sparkle on the street a lot—best medicine to feel happy. I like the heat (sun), no time to bother about it, suits me fine, not so hot as some said it was. Just know that I am happy to be alive! [. . .] Have been to museum here, lot of old stuff, some sculpture very modern looking with beautiful curvy lines. Huge pieces and gold bracelets and rings of all imaginable kinds, Arabs very smart people. So I am going to take another long walk now and go, I don’t know where. I guess I’ll go straight to India from here. Was thinking of going to Sudan and maybe Ethiopia and around that area but am afraid money will run out and I’ll be stuck for months working in some salt mines or something that sounds horrible. And I feel there’s more interest in India than other place. [. . .] I’ll be here in Cairo, waiting for [my VA check] on the 4th or 5th of September and then get boat right away to India or as soon as there is a boat. I would like to settle down and study Hindu and yoga or something interesting to dive into the mind soul, though it’s also great to travel and see parts of not seen before world. Love Peter [August 28, 1961: journal]

Evening in American Library, reading Herman Melville. His travels to Cairo in 1858 or so—mysterious place for him—the pyramids. Got lonely feeling these past two days, maybe because of codeine or opium or just not meeting enough English speaking people? Seems I need to change, but what to change to? Am I getting older and more reserved? or more friendly? Idea to bring private life out into open, honest like. And now this expensive trip to India from Port Said. May have to hold up on Israel farm for three or four months to save up money to get to India, or else go and live cheap in India. Once I get there, that can be done.

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[August 28, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cairo to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Dear Kate: Was out yesterday drawing Nile and mosques and buildings and people and roads and busses and cars and donkeys and trees and greens, etc. Got my Parker pen lifted by two young Arab kids who pulled a fast one on me and two minutes later I realized what happened but they were gone—I didn’t care, so got cheap Arab pen, girl’s pen with spider-line good to draw with so I’m happy again. Have moved to another hotel, little bit cheaper—idea to live around as much as possible in the short time I’m here so see various places. Most of these hotels are huge monsters of things. Cairo more like Mexico City than any other place. In couple more days I move to another hotel that will be cheaper. Am staying in Cairo until I get letter from you with VA check and then move on to India where I want to be. Got a little touch of dysentery not bad though. [. . .] Love Peter [ca. August 30, 1961: journal]

Morning now, am sitting in hotel or apartment building square with shops on each side—tobacco. Older man and youth and boy sit behind counter talking. Restaurant with one table outside its window and two more near center of courtyard square—a coiffeur or barber shop—the barber youth sitting outside waiting on stool. The hall a passageway of bags and trunks and leather bags hanging from racks on street. A tea or chai place of stools and small tables. A back stairway with mostly sexy pictures or watercolors of girls just standing looking out of windows. Or a mosque or king or couple embracing, etc. And on this side, that I am on, is another restaurant with cans and jars in the window and two tables, empty, and four more tables in center of square where one Arab sits eating and young kid talking to him. Bread, water and dash of something, maybe soup or beans or something else. Then this tea cafe I am sitting at against wall on marble old slab small table. [. . .] The tables in center have three elders playing checkers or something like that. They keep slamming down a black or white piece and roll tiny dice in wooden box. People pass through this square to get to the street on other side. A boy here passes through scratching his armpit. An Arab in brown cloth, head-shaped hat in grey robe carrying green paper book whizzes by. Another workman in brown greasy clothes carrying six black greasy cook trays or baking trays on balanced head glides past. And as I look up see apartment—brown, grey dust blocks of stone and windows with dozens of wooden shutters open. A few at top closed. The three checker men pay for their tea and go.

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Sitting at cafe, saw man balance child in chair on one leg on forehead. The child was completely relaxed and seemed to be sleeping. Then the child got off and he started to balance chair on wrist, arm joined to shift leg to forehead and make like rhythm movement. Thought I could do same in America, Greenwich Village, Washington Square Park, maybe to make money. But would I be allowed? I see myself in mirror across tea cafe near wall—my neat short brown hair down over my forehead coming to blunt point just above right side of nose, my dark brown red eyeglasses and white Arab cigarette inhaling and my blue shirt with pocket by each tit. Little Arab children, carrying shoeshine boxes keep pestering me for money, sometimes I give, other times, I not give, depending on poor looks or if I’m eating or drinking, I give half of what I got. That I like best to do. They are most surprised when this return is given. [August 31, 1961: journal]

Was thinking last night all about returning to New York City and those I know there. LeRoi Jones, Frank O’Hara, Bob Kaufman28—and others. Fantasizing what kind of arguments I’d get involved in. Imagined conversation with LeRoi: LeRoi: When did ya get back? Peter: A month ago. LeRoi: I didn’t know. Peter: No one knew. LeRoi: Why? Peter: Didn’t have postcard money to tell those I knew. LeRoi: Where are you staying? Peter: No where. LeRoi: So what was your trip like?

Hettie [Jones]29 comes in, “Oh, Peter!” I hug her as I did LeRoi and say, “Heard you two had almost broke up tussle, but I guess all worked out now.” I tell her she’s getting fat—say hello to Kellie.30 I try to think of something interesting to say to the youngster, like I was across town when you were born. But can Kellie [be] old enough to understand? Seems not. Arguing with Kaufman in Cedar Bar about color black. We make too much noise and get drawn down to police station. I tell Bob this is your fault, you like these scenes, but I don’t feel free to speak free in front of police as you seem to do and like to do. Then thought of Jack Kerouac and how [I would] run across him in 28. Bob Kaufman (1925–1986). Poet and author of Abomunist Manifesto. 29. Hettie Jones (b. 1934). Poet and author of How I Became Hettie Jones. 30. Kellie Jones is the daughter of LeRoi and Hettie Jones.

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New York City and how he would be bored to hear or read anything new I did. I told him: Peter: We are all God. Jack: I agree. Peter: You agree, but you don’t act on it.

Forgot what else I said but figured I was right and he bored with me. So that’s Jack and me in fantasy New York City 1962. Also thought how dictatorial of Don Allen to use, select, pick upon my two poem [“Second Poem”] and not first.31 I didn’t have foresight to ask him to use “Frist Poem” or “Morris Poem.” What is this shit anyway? All these other poets want to be published from now on, not me! Only/ unless on my own terms, or nothing goes. I get kick out of showing it in paper form too, as well as published. Whoever is going to publish my poems for 5 or 10¢? But I don’t have these poems ready or writ yet. So, pointless for me to think about this now. Better to think of poems themselves. Yet fantasized how Don Allen was Dictator of Poetry. I selected what he wanted with advice from Allen, etc.: Now I know—avoid this stuff. Six more days left in Cairo. What if my mother don’t send check? I have to stay here longer. To wait for it. Better send her another letter today just in case she don’t send or get my three letters already sent. Beautiful day and don’t know what to do with myself! [September 1, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cairo to the Orlovsky family]

Hello sweet folks at home: There I was, sitting on my lean ass, not knowing what to do with myself at some tea cafe by train terminal in Cairo, when I hopped to it and darted after a shop wagon in the street, to buy me a needle and thread. [. . .] But you know sweet Kate, I was not only sitting but sitting kinda depressed like—all this poorness around my eyes and in my eyes—like little girls running along my side on the rich-store-shop and tie streets of Cairo who plead as I walk, in a hurry to get away from them cause sometime I don’t want to give an inch of money, or I do give and they think me rich and so keep asking for more and then they get the idea I can only give so much—it’s when I don’t give after being asked a few times that later on in the day and usually after a long walk I see all around the poor sweating it out, working their balls off and young kids too, eight and six and five years of age working at something, lifting, pulling or worst of all going around with paper bag picking up what’s left of flung, dropped cigarette butts—these kids zig here and turn there and bend 31. In his seminal anthology, The New American Poetry: 1945–1960 (Grove Press, 1960), Don Allen had included Orlovsky’s “Second Poem.”

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there for butts that even a starved wino in the Bowery wouldn’t think in all his natural born days that he would have to maneuver in society streets after such trash, but here it’s a common thing—and when I see that and other such goings on [I feel] kinda guilty that, though poor in American standards—still in their eyes I am rich as a second hand Cadillac—and that’s rich here—so I got feeling bad today after being more than a week in Cairo—the accumulation of all this piling up and no one to tell—except you—who know what it is to be poor to a certain extent. But I am not going to let this guilt feeling get me down and get me depressed and head hang low and no smile, no sir-re, I ain’t, no—cause that’s what the devil wants of me and since I am God I got the great choice of realizing that the best medicine is feeling good and happy even when confronted with poor eyes and dirty feet child that I cry for when I am alone in room and long to be one of them—to run the dirty streets as one of them—I really do—cause I somehow feel they are free. They get by somehow though they must be sick as a seed under tons of garbage and cement. Well I am I, Peter, living off the fat of the land, but got poetry and my own inside secret soul feelings that I want to see go thru changes to something new. [. . .] [letter continued: September 2, 1961]

Well, it’s Saturday now: [. . .] I had a strange sexual dream of Marie the other night and was amazed I could have such a dream as that, but what goes on in everyone’s minds is very vast and always vast that all happens and even more in dream goes on—I guess I need a girl friend but the Arab girls seem kinda hard to get to know and being a stranger I feel a bit self-conscious in going after them so just hope they come after me. [. . .] Lots of cheap food here—eat what the poor eat and you can’t go wrong—that is, the working poor. They got a dish, for 5¢ that’s of rice, noodles, fried onions, and another kind of brown rice and you add hot red sauce and it’s very good. So will say so long for now folks—love you all and hope you will be happy, best doctor in the world. I go to mail this and walk around to find something interesting to do or meet people or what not. Wonderful to lay in their mosques here and look up at the highly decorated ceilings and wood carvings and paint of all the art work going into Mohammed’s soul. Peter [September 5, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cairo to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Dear Kate: Glad to of got your letter so fast. My plan for now is to leave Cairo by train to Port Said and there ask about for job on ship to India and

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if can’t get will go back to Beirut, Lebanon, and make my way into Palestine, a little annoying cause you need visas and have to cross borders of Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan and these countries hate Israel. So may go to Israel and stay there a few months. I am glad to hear Laff is hopping it into the city and making friends—in fact I am surprised. [. . .] I hope he does well. Is he seeing Janine or Irving? Who is he meeting there? If you let me know I can write them and ask them to make sure he don’t take too much heroin—though I doubt if he’s getting heroin or much of it to do any harm as it’s very expensive, very much so—and if he were getting a little bit, it would have the effect of calming him down as heroin is sedative. As for methedrine, too much of it is bad and that’s what he may be getting cause it’s cheap and probably plenty around. It has the effect of keeping the taker up all day and night and eating very irregularly and losing weight. One or two shots of methedrine a week can’t do much harm but continual dosage every day over a few months is not too good. [. . .] You say he talks a blue streak—what does he say? But it is good that he’s going into city and making friends—that alone is a surprise turn of events and probably it’s what he is yearning for—a kind of contact with those his own age who paint or write or who think and talk a lot [. . .] I got three hours left to be in Cairo and have to write a letter to Laff too and wash a few clothes and get street car to post office and go to train depot at 5 to buy ticket and return some books I borrowed from student here about [Gamal Abdel] Nasser and politics, etc. Love and flowers Peter [September 8, 1961: journal]

I am having beautiful time in Port Said, meeting many here and there in streets and tea cafes and public meeting streets much to my amazement, young workers, students, tourist guides, old men like Muhamed Mustafa, as tonight we talked and smoked for an hour all about different parts of world. [September 9, 1961: journal]

Took ferry boat from Port Said to Port Fuad—five-minute ride all flat. Came upon a salt lake by the beach walked around this flat town for a few hours. Kids with rifles shooting birds for money. Hot like Mexico, am sitting in tea cafe empty except for chairs and loud Arab music radio box. Few Arab boys sit outside playing dominoes or cards for hours. I go back to Port Said and try to find job on ship to India, Bombay. (A fly on my neck—tickles very gently.)

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[September 22, 1961: journal]

Here I am now in Beirut, alone, in small room, with two candles. Just killed an ant. No rent to pay, so far. An old man said if I cleaned out room here I could stay for two weeks and pay no rent, but his daughter is different case—the money talker and talker—but even if I do have to pay, it will be very little. Borrowed a Sheaffer’s pen from somebody. It is 10:00 PM. Out walking alone thinking of writing. Kids on street called me crazzey! Lost twenty bucks trying to cop for dope, snow [amphetamine]—no luck. Am spending time and money and worry over this so have decided to forget it and let luck take its course instead of pushing for it with worried skull. [September 23, 1961: journal]

Met Arab, Lebanese poets, they seem shitty with easy student kind of life. Most of them work on newspapers and got politic pain parties for this or that nationalism. They said Beirut big center for literary movement. Very little of their poetry translated except maybe for French. Saw but one poem by Yusuf-Al-Khal32 about wheat and food to grow—dull plea for better life for poor—grow food to hold in hand, etc. It was in free verse, in Middle East Forum. I just read Rip Van Winkle for first time. Very good, magical too, like opium tale too. And now to read [Nathaniel] Hawthorne Young Goodman Brown in my little room by candlelight half full of landlord’s junk—and a little opium in me. [September 23, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Beirut, Lebanon, to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Got me a tiny barred window room full of cluttered junk and maybe free of rent, for awhile, in Beirut. Have been here since the 8th of September. Moved around to a lot of cheap hotels and then to more cheaper YMCA and then met student of Pakistan studying here and moved in with him. He had beautiful apartment on apartment building top overlooking vast view of sea, rocks shore and slope-hill buildings—but the landlord wanted him to move to make room for another tenant so he had to get out. Landlord had another room at bottom of building used to store junk and he showed us that—the Pakistan student didn’t want, so I offered to clean it up and move in and so did, but got no light so had to buy 32. Yusuf al-Khal (1917–1987). A Syrian-born poet.

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candle and found huge black spider asleep on wood sticks—very dangerous for to bite you, not fatal but painful sick bite if it touches you. I’m full of worries and loneliness not know[ing] what to do with myself now, haunted by horrors of past two years in New York City apartment living. I got gypped out of twenty dollars in looking to find heroin, but no find and so best to forget it or I’ll be broke—the law is cracking down here since I got to town. Before it would of been easy but now it’s hard to find and there are so many cheats out to make a gyp that it got me so depressed and so think the whole world is money mad. One kid, on street corner in old part of Arab town, I was with another Arab from Syria who did the talking for me—this kid gives me flour instead of heroin and I give him three dollars and almost got into fight with knife as my Arab friend was pissed off at this fast clean gyp. Also it makes for too much worry. I begin to think the whole town is full of cops watching every move I make when I go hunting for the stuff. It’s a pain in the ass and I want no part of it now. I would like to write and think alone in my room or walk about town and meet friendly strangers here on street corners or workers in front of small grocery stores. But now I’m alone and bored and tired of life and feel like an ant with many lives that keeps getting stepped on by big business shit shoes and keep getting blown off the street by car horns that scream like mad in Beirut. Wish I was in India but not enough money to get there so I don’t know what the hell to do with myself. Got to figure out or I’ll get depressed. Beirut [is a] big center for poetry—met some of them poets but they all shitty. They all work on newspapers and seem to love easy life. Some very involved with politics of Arab nationalism unity. Got interviewed but it turned out lousy as the fellow didn’t write down what I said but editorialized about what I said so it turned out lousy to read, will send you copy to keep for me. Beirut very rich compared to Egypt and other Arab countries, I never saw a more sex starved country than here. Turkey also—Arabs very conservative with woman. So I don’t know what to do—go to India overland or go to Israel for three months. Israel seems like dump though there might be some interesting people there. Oh, it would be good to go there and see what’s on everyone’s mind for this is now important time for them. I could go there and work and so save money. But if I do then it’s harder to get back into Arab country to travel overland to India. Peter

* * *

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Editor’s Note: Peter had not been in direct contact with Allen Ginsberg since he left Tangier in July. Allen had written several letters to him, but they were not able to stay in touch, each one traveling independently around the Mediterranean. In this letter, Peter tries to fill Allen in on his recent travels. [September 25, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Beirut to Allen Ginsberg]

What say Allen, where are you? Me, been in Beirut since September 9th. Got a funny room for no rent with two windows and room full of landlord’s junk, ripped awnings, rotten leather chairs—I got to be careful which one I sit on or they break—no light so [I use] candle and have been reading Great American Short Stories—first time read Rip Van Winkle—I’m coming up in the world. How’s things? Maybe you in Berlin? You can’t still be in Copenhagen can you? Love to Gregory. [. . .] I have been on the constant go for the past two months so have had no mail except from my mother which is very little, so know not much of what is happening—my mother says that Laff has been going into city by himself and seeking friends there and is taking some drugs, methedrine or heroin or both, and comes home to her with excited talk that gets loud sometimes and mother fears may provoke anger of neighbors. I got your letter in Athens, but that same day I ran and got boat to Istanbul and still don’t know what I do next—[maybe] go to Israel to save up money to head straight to India overland. In order to decide I stay here [in Beirut] till middle of next month so maybe you will have time to write me here. It takes a while to get Iraq visa, a month for them to check up on you. So if I do decide to go overland to India, I’ll have to wait for that, but then I thought maybe I go to Israel and save up money to buy a motor scooter and hop over hill and dale to India from Beirut. But I don’t know—met someone here from Pakistan who invited me to his farm in Pakistan if and when I get there, so that would be fun and I could work on his farm and learn that way of farming—very valuable experience that [Robert] Frost could use maybe. [. . .] Happy to travel and very happy to stay in room alone for a month here in Beirut—plan to go to library here at American University (AUB) and read Arab poetry books—some Sufi poetry, too. What new poems ya got and Gregory? Hope to hear from ya both—had funny dream as worker in factory where four huge cans of cooking soup were—I was hired as taster—and when I tasted, the tourists would look and wink at what a hoaxey job I had and I would wink back too agreeing. Okay for now—love to you both Peter

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[October 3, 1961: journal]

Met [a] good girl, Miriam, two days ago here in Beirut. She tells me her sad first love seventeen-year-old story that resulted in baby that year, after baby [Miriam] got her birth brains removed [hysterectomy] and so can’t have children any more. Felt sad and curious as to how she must feel now. There’s a lot more I want to write here but I am afraid for fear she might read this—but that’s something I must get over—as important to what I really think about—right? Yes! And it was lovely meeting her, she taking my head to hold in her arms, I was inwardly silently joyed at that—we talked and tickled arms, neck, and made finger curls in her hair. She’s a sweet girl and a surprise package. “What are the girls like in America?” she asks. And I say vaguely, not wanting to say anything bad or critical at the moment about anybody—they are all good girls. She will come tomorrow and we will go swimming. It will be wonderful to lay on flat rock with her and talk of what’s on our minds. I am happy to have met her and want to cry with her, but feel that’s too sad a thing to do. She feels I am sad and asks me why I am so and I usually, for some incomprehensible reason give her a vague answer. Why have I so much need to hide, am I not living a life? Can I not say how I really feel and to let that take care of itself? Like a woman having baby and baby grows into young man who then takes care of himself. [October 6, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Beirut to Allen Ginsberg]

Hello Allen: Wrote ya yesterday—got your whereabouts from Spiros, a young Greek semi-tall leaning shoulders and nervous about-to-be-new-student here— he said he had seen you just a few days ago and that you were taking trips about Greece and fed up in Athens with literary crowd. I believe his name is Spiros. Anyway, he has now decided to leave Beirut and hop to Paris and not stay with the University here. Seems he recognized me from your description and so came up to me when I was buying food in [the] student cafeteria. [. . .] I got some grey shit trouble and just threw up, maybe from bottle of cosenal last night—bad stuff and not going to bother with it anymore. Was at gathering last night with some Americans and Syrians and what not and got into ugly hysterical with American girl whose father works for state department—over Castro and America’s ways there in Cuba. Lots of poets here, but they don’t speak English—one they say is popular Mohamed Fouda and he looks a little better than the rest who all seem like MA students.

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Are you going to Israel?—I may go for two months or so to save up money and come back to Beirut to continue overland journey to India. So if you are, maybe see you there—are you coming to Beirut too?—I hope you get these letters right away so you can answer me soon. Well that was foiled—just tried to sell my blood for $15 but they said come back Monday—hope they take me but maybe they got too much of my kind already. [. . .] I was to get my mother’s mail today or yesterday, but no come. Means she no got my letter, so I have to stay here until I get letter from her with VA check. Then maybe I go to Israel for two or three months to save up money for overland trip to India. [letter continued: October 8, 1961]

They don’t want my blood—don’t have enough in me—and no word from mother, so have to wait in Beirut till I get VA [check] from her— maybe be here two weeks more—OK for now. Love Peter [October 8, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Beirut to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: I am waiting for VA check, Kate, like hungry animal and so am bombarding you with letters in hope one gets to you. It is Sunday here now, one week into October and if I don’t hear [or] get money from you soon, I’ll be broke and stranded and in a fix, so hope you get one of these letters. I have to move from my free room tomorrow as landlord don’t want me here anymore, needs his room for more junk to fill it up with. OK, want this to hit post office box here fast, so am cutting letter short. Love Peter [October 10, 1961: journal]

Got up early this 6:30 morning and stepped out of YMCA to sit by sea. But then started thinking scared at the awful horror weight of the world battling on all sides against each other and sad Miriam crying last night. Maybe she wants me for a (lover) friend, but I don’t know how to reply. Even felt her crying way down to her stomach. It’s lovely to know Miriam and say I love her and we make dear friends. The American embassy building is on my left and [I] can see flag waving there. It’s too early for mail—and I’ve gotten stuck here because of not being careful enough in writing Kate, mom, so she could be told

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where my address in this country is. Another ten days may have to stay here before I-to-She-and-She-to-Me letter contact. Tossed and turned and had dreams I know and woke from my sleep innumerable times and scratch and turn and hear others. Spent day at YMCA reading Newsweek, eating grapes, and now poetry of French before fifteenth century. Was getting wastefully involved with Miriam. Forgetting to live my own life.

* * * Editor’s Note: Finally a letter arrived from his mother Kate, and as Peter indicates in the following letter, he had confused the situation by giving conflicting addresses to her. [October 14, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Beirut to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Sorry, it’s all my fault, I had just forgot that when I wrote you on September 26 that I said send your letter to c/o American Express and all along I have been going to American Embassy. You must of been worrying like hell till you got this, but yesterday I got your letter so I am not broke now. Well, now that I got money, I leave Sunday, tomorrow for Syria, Damascus, for two days and then go on to Jordan where Jerusalem is and stay there for a week, going to city of Petra (city of rocks) and Bethlehem and Mount of Olives for looks around of Christ’s birthland—it all should be interesting. From Jerusalem I cross over into the Jewish part of Jerusalem and then will be in Palestine or Israel to stay there for a while working on kibbutz farm, get free room and board in return for work. Can save up money that way in preparation for long trip to India [. . .] I was staying at YMCA here for a while and a few fellow travelers were talking about God. One of Arabs said, “what is a car without engine and what is a man without soul when he dies.” I said it was a very mysterious object laying on earth. When ya die we mingle with nature and our body gets re-fed into everything, so that’s going somewhere, not just physical body but soul too mixed into the new—which should be interesting trip to take. [. . .] I am lucky the YMCA here is right near the sea and I can hear the sea’s sound. At night the waves look like light bulbs that light the shore up. [. . .] OK for now, love Peter

* * *

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Editor’s Note: On October 15 Peter hired a car to drive him the fifty miles from Beirut to Damascus. His new girlfriend, Miriam, planned to go along. In a letter written to Ginsberg the same day, but not reprinted here, Peter mentioned that he was on his way but failed to mention that he was traveling with her. [October 16, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Damascus to Lafcadio and Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Laff and Kate: Came over mountains and valley floors to get to Damascus. It’s much more modern here than I thought. More like mid-western U.S. town surrounded by mountains. No fighting here, except thousands of troops of soldiers hanging around. Very quiet and normal, like Dutch town. People here more friendly than capitalistic money snatchers of Beirut. No one here even thinks about atom bomb shelters. I be here for another day and then move on to Jerusalem. There’s a river, small, runs thru Damascus. In the desert all red hills and mountain slopes and huge camels resting along the highway. Tomorrow I get out to Jordan’s capital, Amman, a place as old as the Bible—chilly here at night, nice thick blankets. Everybody’s got different head dress and almost all the population looks like they came from the mountains. I can buy huge jig-nootons [Fig Newtons] here very cheap. So many markets and donkey loads all moving down narrow streets. Will send you another card when I get to Jerusalem. Bought a new paper book and did some drawing last night. Love Peter [ca. October 20, 1961: journal]

Two of the oldest looking police search me as I went into Jerusalem Post Office—as they were doing to everybody—Why?—didn’t know. Peter wants a naked baby Peter wants a naked girl— Peter wants his friends to be naked— Peter wants his street the same Peter wants his house made of glass Peter wants the world to flow a river of come— To meet such delights to keep such lights—

Well, that’s it: one way to write a poem is note like talking to a loved one—those whispers—the way it’s done—concentrate on lines and tiny utterances that lull the heart into listening—Right!

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[October 24, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Jerusalem to Kate and Lafcadio Orlovsky]

Hello again Kate and Laff: I am here in the old birthplace of Christ, fine fellow and many others all resting in peaceful graves. Jerusalem is the place, and after having been here four days found a church, Lutheran, that’s much cheaper and you can cook in kitchen—two other Americans here both from California, one a priest, the other a painter and traveler who just came from India. In my four days here have seen the holy rock—a mosque where Mohammed rose up to journey to Mecca by night and did the trip in one night by taking huge steps from horizon to horizon. And also the Holy Sepulcher, as my little guide book says is “the holiest place in Christendom, erected on the traditional site of the crucifixion, burial, and resurrection of Christ.” Have also gone to Bethlehem and the Dead Sea and Mount of Olives and to spot where Christ was betrayed by Judas and God knows what else that book says all took place here. It’s early in day and want to get out into town as old as it is, and so will end letter. [. . .] This old town is beautiful. Love to you both now Peter [ca. October 24, 1961: journal]

Back at German Lutheran Church, in the kitchen where I belong, making soup, chopping garlic with my fingernails, just poured in two big parts of rice and more stuff, potatoes, funny spiced meat balls with seeds in them, a half a tomato, and let it go with a small flame. It’s a big pot of soup good for ten days maybe. Two weeks of Jerusalem, have no guidebook, stumble across things, asking, “What’s that round thing?” Many churches and mosques and all their doors closed except for mosques. Lot of tourist money and I am getting none of it. Inside the center of a big church was a little church where Christ once laid and he, the priest with wide beard, asked me for dollars and I handed him rose petal I saw nearby because it was more colorful than money from my dirty pocket. So I put rose in the little tin plate. 9 o’clock and just came back from buying cigarettes. The [people] are still at work, the little shoe shop boy is mastering his leather, two soldiers walking hand in hand, no one kissing in the street. Have not seen one kiss in Jerusalem, except for men, that art is lost here. Romeo and Juliet are secretly exchanging tongues. What’s in store for me if I stay here in Jerusalem? Keep getting told to watch out who you say to when speaking about bad government King Hussein, many detectives

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in plain clothes to grab and make trouble for your family. A land where open love kisses and body hugs is denied. Many keys and big ones too. One old nun I saw had a hundred that added a weight to her already bent shoulder-neck. Jerked off twice and a bottle of cosenal, bad score. Met Arab poet who has read Rimbaud and five minutes later we were on bus to his house, family in small camp of two thousand refugees outside of Jerusalem and all left Palestine. We laid half the night talking of his history—he showed me poem about time when he saw his mother and father kissing and seeing them in this intimacy accidentally as he came thru the door he got a hard hit from his father and cried and left them for the mountain and then came back to his room—but he writes about their cock and cunt embarrassment. How I was surprised, just what I was looking for and here he was, an Arab of all people, too. [He] wants to leave his country for Germany or America. Good looking, little moustache that looked gentle. We ate the bread his mother, whose name means “the quiet one,” made. She was tall in black red-striped around the neck robe-like thing, I don’t know what they call it. Tons of little children. His father spoke a little English and had a dry cheek. I know I will meet him again somewhere in my heart’s house. We slept on the floor where moonbeams made our hair look more perfect. Right near the bus depot we met, as we were walking side by side he said something to me and I turned to look and there he was carrying books and wanted to talk. We will talk much he said to me and I want to be your friend. God is in us, we are God, everyone is God and we have to make him in ourselves. There is no heaven and hell. The bus passes, a bunch of factory workers get on and jump in seats. He asks me who I read or like. He’s a sincere twenty-one year old. So I give him my sister’s address for she is lonely and say she would love to hear from you, about anything. I meant to ask him if Mohammed, the prophet, thought the world was round or flat or didn’t think or what he thought. I am reading the Koran and it seems like fairy tale. The book, much to fear if you do bad. Yet it must feel beautiful to be in with it all, to feel that it all works like the beautiful mosaic I saw in mosque at the Dome of the Rock up by the ceiling beams. Now if they had a living God. The old wall, brick by brick I look. The thousand shops get all tucked away at night. [November 11, 1961: journal]

In Haifa, on bus, no I don’t want your orange, your cookie, no speak Yiddish—got Israel Hotel—for $1.40. Fifteen people didn’t know where American Express was, thought I wanted a paper by that name— delighted by all young girls about in tight dungarees—this could be a fucker’s paradise if I was so inclined—They got beggars here—more than in Jordan—surprised at that.

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* * * Editor’s Note: Allen Ginsberg had been searching for Orlovsky, and finally the two were reunited in Tel Aviv. They were both discovering that it had not been a very good idea to visit Israel since they planned to go elsewhere in the Middle East. Travel directly from Israel to Islamic countries was strictly prohibited, so once there they were trapped. Israel was also one of the most expensive countries they had visited. Originally they had hoped to meet Gary Snyder and Joanne Kyger in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), but they soon came to realize that it would take them weeks and weeks to get out of the country and so would miss their rendezvous point. [November 24, 1961: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tel Aviv to Lafcadio and Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Dear Laff and Kate: I have been here in Israel for a week and a half now and it’s costing me a rich loaf of bread. Problem now is to get out of here now, as soon as I can, on route to India. I’ll be skinned of my money if I stay here any longer. Surprisingly I met Allen here by the sea on Tel Aviv street and we head to old India, spending last few days hunting information on [way] out to India by land or sea. [. . .] I don’t understand how Marie is going on in New York City all this time not working like this—what’s up with her anyway—is she becoming a real lazy beatnik? She would like it here, girls are highly respected and are in the army working away just like the young men and have the same equality, in fact they practically run the country, that’s all you see on the street, busses. It’s a, I am always told, a socialist country that has huge rat worries of being chased by fifty million Arabs that surround them. Oh for the life of Charlie Chaplin. Oh if only Lafcadio was a happy nut! No, Rockland33 would be horrible for him. [. . .] So what’s the problem—you don’t want him around, gets too much in your way and is getting out of control with violence toward you? If you could only marry him off to a rich girl, tell Marie to hunt one down for him. Maybe she’s sitting on a lonely Central Park bench under a slight drizzle? Maybe she’s humming at a painting in the Museum of Art? Certainly such an odd fellow as Laff can’t be ending up in just a simple mental hospital, is that the fate of surprise packages like him? Here there are farms called kibbutz and they want young he-mans like him. I tell you Kate the best thing to do is get him into a nunnery, no 33. Rockland was a mental institution in New York.

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I mean a farm, upstate. There is the State Agriculture Unemployment Agency that can handle him. Tell Laff how would he like to work on a farm? Then again the best policy to take is to try and deal with Laff on a very factual basis, telling him he has to come to decision now that he’s over twenty-one years of age to take care of himself or if not [then] someone else will make rules for him. But I am not home so I don’t know what the situation is. In the Arab countries they have very few mental hospitals cause here madness is accepted as matter of course and become free to roam the streets singing to themselves or sleep in mosques, looking at beautiful carved wooden ceilings. [. . .] How simple and sane Lafcadio is when compared to the fifty million Arabs who want to slaughter the Jews right and left overnight if they could get chance. Laff is like real Arab, who like to lazy it around all day. Here in the Arab countries, the young Arabs his age would be very interested in him and would not even conceive him as crazy to begin with. In a way I feel I am not much good for Laff. We seem to have an incestuous relationship where we feed each other nothing but depressions and continuances of status quo situation that is not much help for him nor me. I am not really interested in helping him solve the problem of what is to be done with Laff in future but more interested in just talking with him as one fellow to another without any worries of problems of where he will end up since he don’t want to take care of himself. I am tired of trying to run him like a father and make sure he’s washed clean like a mother. Then the other solution, is like Oleg says, off he will go to Islip [mental hospital] more likely than Rockland for he is in that district or area. And that is sad, like a young girl getting brutally raped. This seems to be the real other alternative for there is where Julius went also and what not. I do think that Laff ought to be tuned in on what’s happening or what’s going to happen to him, since it’s his life and he ought to be made aware of these things—if you can’t handle job of informing him then Nick or Marie should be made to handle it—It’s possible if the situation is put to him in right way he might be able to pull out of it. But of course you got a fatalistic mind about Laff. [. . .] Old Jerusalem great place to live, stayed there for three weeks, stayed in German Lutheran Church, which was located right near the Holy Sepulcher, the spot where Christ ascended to heaven. Having not much to do I would walk here and there, or sit at tea cafes, old looking places where old men sit leaning against walls that disappear into the sky. Drawing the passersby or the alley scene in front of my eyes. But now here I am in Israel, and the difference has got me depressed— no sooner do I come here across the Melbourne Gate than I change my money to Israel pounds and see my money go so fast that, no no, I don’t like it here cause of that, and that alone. The place looks just like Queens or something like that. But very very well built up, buzz-

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ing cars and well-worn clothes, not like what I have just gotten used to in Arab countries, where the slow walk is common. It’s too much for me and I want to get out of here. Though like any place, what makes one place interesting is the kind of people you meet and talk with. And Israel has its interesting people and that’s what I like more than anything else and that is what determines my liking a country or not. Allen’s got a friend who lives in an apartment near the sea here in Tel-Aviv, way up on top floor.34 [. . .] So she is letting us stay here for short time. Seems we are having trouble in getting India visas, they don’t want any more poor people there than they got and we are two more. They want to see [that] you have return tickets or pockets full of money if you go there. Also they don’t like it if you say you want to go there for religious reasons, to study yoga or learn from sages. I wish I was there now [rather] than going thru Arab countries. I have shots for smallpox, cholera, typhus, typhoid, paratyphoid and some other shot. I’ll bet there’s some more. There’s always amebic dysentery, a foul tough bunch of bacteria that loves the intestine and hugs the liver or kidneys and makes a mess of you for quite some time and may even be a life companion host. [. . .] There is something sensible here about the people, but they are just as materialistic as other countries and I don’t see how God is going to be born here again as like 2,000 years ago when the Jews did chase Arabs off the land here—in fact it seems like the same old story of what’s going on now that went on before. [. . .] So I get into Israel—you may not know [this], but the Arabs in Jordan have the best, best part of Jerusalem, the old city and the old temple where it stood before it was destroyed. The Jews have the other side of Jerusalem that they have now built up for the last ten years and it has a few important landmarks of biblical importance, but not nothing to compare with old Jerusalem that the Jordanian Arabs have. It is a funny situation for people who come here and it must be very strange for the Jews, because old Jerusalem was the center heart of their life all these 2,000 past years. And now there’s a strip of land called No Man’s Land that belongs to neither Arabs or Jews, but there you can see houses and broken windows and bullet sand bags that people left. Being in Arab lands, especially Egypt, I got the impression that Israel was doomed and would fall by the wayside, but when you get here you don’t get impression—just the opposite. I don’t know what all the trouble is about. And the more I hear the less I want to know because it seems like insolvable problem with continual hate pouring from both sides. But there are some Jews that like the Arabs and want to dive into their way of life. But what I hear is [David] Ben-Gurion 34. They stayed with a friend of Allen’s family, Ethel Broide.

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hates Arabs and that don’t help. Seems politics is a fish that don’t want to be caught. [. . .] Flower love, Peter [ca. December 22, 1961: journal]

Stuck in Acre [Israel] and got fit of asthma as well—overdose of liquid opium last night to relieve my chest—threw up—[. . .] It’s raining out, Allen and I stuck in a small post office trying to telephone Tel Aviv [about] boats leaving Eilat, Red Sea part for boat to India—for a month now we have been trying all angles—speaking to many with as yet no luck—Allen sent to Playboy to do article for them in advance 500 bucks. Acre old Arab town—beautiful old alleyways and few hashish cafes— yesterday were in some post offices Allen stamping pack of letters when Jewish police, five of them with dog trying to smell down a hashish family—seems they teach dog to smell it out—they had no luck and went away in jeep—the rain keeps us inside reading—yesterday finished book on First Crusades to Jerusalem—of Peter the Hermit and Godfrey [. . .] [ca. December 1961: journal]

Stuck in Eilat [Israel] with few ships to Mombasa and Djibouti—Dream last night of savages spearing my arms and someone directing me away— thought before I fell asleep of Arabs fighting Jews by the hundreds— planning bombings here, cutting street lights on the road—making a real mess, chasing all the Jews out of Israel and so result of all this thinking I get a dream about fighting—and I get caught in it, speared—that black fighter makes believe he wants to kill me but really doesn’t, his specialty seems to be to aim his spear at my head but only hit the ear or to aim at my chest and get his spear thru my finger.

5

e

India, 1962–1963 1962 Editor’s Note: Though it took a long time, Peter and Allen finally found passage from Israel to India via East Africa. They stopped in Kenya and played tourist, driving inland to see the wild animals while waiting for their boat to Bombay (now Mumbai). While they were in transit, things back in Northport around the Orlovsky house had deteriorated, and one day after Lafcadio had struck his mother, she called the police. While the police were there, Kate tried to stab Lafcadio with a knife, so instead of taking Lafcadio away, the police decided that both mother and son were in need of psychiatric treatment and they took them both to mental hospitals. Peter’s sister, Marie, forwarded his VA checks to him for a while, but fearing that she might not be reliable, Peter asked Ted Wilentz,1 the owner of the Eighth Street Bookshop, to take over the duties of forwarding his mail. [January 1962: journal]

Mombasa—we got high with cat called Shontay and his two friends—a shilling a cigarette and after one 50 pennies a cigarette—good scary high—we have a month to stay in Kenya—trips to Tsavo [East National] Park, all kinds of animals—Amboseli—Ngorongoro National Park. [February 16, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Bombay to Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Marie: We got into Bombay yesterday noon and got your mail letter and 1. Ted Wilentz (1915–2001). Owner of the Eighth Street Bookshop in New York City and publisher of Corinth Books.

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VA’s (two of them checks)—thank you for prompt action. [. . .] India is going to be great place to get lost in for a year or so. Wrote to Eugene [Brooks] and sent him short history of family like you asked. Sending Kate to Riverhead, is that a prison or mental hospital prison? I still don’t think it will be serious charge against her. Today we go to New Delhi to meet friend there [Gary Snyder] and go to Yoga Vedanta Forest Academy where holy men talk. Went to Indian classical dance last night and saw Krishna dance like God. Music here very great. “Sukriya” in Hindu means thank-you. O.K. for now, love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Peter and Allen hoped to finally hook up with Gary Snyder and Joanne Kyger in Delhi. While living in Japan, they had been studying Buddhism and wanted to visit the holy sites of India. Initially they had planned to meet Peter and Allen in Ceylon, but due to the delays in getting out of Israel, they had switched to Delhi. Taking a train from Bombay to Delhi, Allen and Peter were finally able to locate Gary and Joanne and they began traveling around northern India with them.

Gary Snyder, Joanne Kyger, and Peter Orlovsky in the foothills of the Himalayas, March 1962, India. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

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[March 5, 1962: journal]

Hardwar—Ganges River. I look at Joanne [Kyger]—by silent eye contact of minds we fix post-sex intimacy feeling—I then start to think about Gary [Snyder]—is that why he always stays close to her?—if so, then that seems like a compromise on his part—the unwritten law between them whereby Joanne says: “Stay around me or I’ll sleep with someone else”—Gary: “OK, will do.” Allen keeps his hand on my ass or prick or tummy all night long— he—toward early morning takes my hand to grab his cock. I started thinking about [my] powers of reading Allen’s mind and Gary’s and Bill’s—etc.—tricks—casting evil spells, making things happen.

* * * Editor’s Note: On March 9, Gregory Corso wrote to Peter and Allen and told them that he was in New York and had seen Jack Kerouac, who was drinking heavily and feeling sorry for himself. Jack’s former wife, Joan Haverty, had just gone to court to prove that Jan Kerouac was Jack’s daughter. Although it was true, it was something that Jack was reluctant to admit. In the following letter Peter tries to convince Gregory to come to India. Originally it had been Gregory’s dream to travel to India and find his old girlfriend, Hope Savage, who was living a nomadic life there. [March 20, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Delhi to Gregory Corso]

Dear Gregory: Allen looks like Indian, we both got white khadi2 outfit [. . .] and letting our hair grow long down over the shoulders. [. . .] We fine and in good exercise every morning, yoga breathing and vegetarian bound for six months try. We got your last gloomy letter and sad about Jack [Kerouac]—like all of us he needs to travel—he’ll probably get here on big wavy monsoon boat. Come without delay, Gregory, India full of elephant kisses. We go to Jaipur tomorrow, palaces, elephant rides, main festival called Holi—everybody throws colored water on everybody, nobody spared—like our Halloween—we will also go see Dali Lama near by Delhi in three days and Gary [Snyder] has meditation questions for him—today we meet Tibetan student boy who is an incarnation of high past lama. Tombs and mosques by the dozen to go into and sit and dream for hours on end—vast markets, bazaars with plopping cows 2. Khadi. A handmade Indian garment.

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Severed hand found along the railroad tracks, 1962, India. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

wandering freely on equal parting with beggars, taxis, horse taxis and little Coney Island taxi motor put-puts—everything so cheap, food—all kinds, tea two cents, Indian supper or lunch twenty cents, European sixty cents, Chinese food sixty cents—all railroad stops have European food dishes and on trains—great to ride with sleepers for overnight five dollars for 800 miles Bombay to New Delhi—no worries here Gregory, but like Coney Island atmosphere or Jewish Delancey Street is what comes a little closer to—if we had money for your ticket I’d send it. Allen applied for Merrill Foundation money, may get $3000 for two years.3 If not, living and traveling is so cheap—we have been staying mostly in religious rest houses—Hindi temple with vast park looking like Disneyland, toy caves with skull—tiger face as an entrance, huge stone elephants to crawl over, a real toy religion for everyone and children—like one temple so high, pyramidal shape has a swing inside for everyone, including a family to ride on. You remember Jack Stern describing India to us? We saw one horror sight when only three days in India and on train from Bombay to Delhi to meet Gary we saw, as train pulled into station, a man who had been ripped to ten pieces scattered along the tracks—we got up close, Allen took pictures—a foot with ankle and leg bone you could see sticking up, a hand-arm laying all by itself [. . .] 3. Ginsberg was not able to receive a grant.

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He was a working coolie I guess and Indian cigarettes were in a rag bundle of his all spread about. And the sweeper awkwardly trying to put the pieces in garbage can, but he didn’t quite know where to pick it up, it would keep falling out. In holy town of Hardwar we saw hundreds of naked sadhus4 in procession to bathe in Ganges. They gathered once every twelve years for this, coming from hidden caves in Himalayas. [. . .] So come Greg, we having dream time and for you and us we found the opium smokers—they going to make us Indian type pipe. It’s better than heroin. We had some in dark porch of a hut upstairs at night—it’s a real art, am learning the secret, will know when you get here best better than heroin—longer, smoother, and more magic-dream-giving and not so habit forming. I just asked around till I finally found. Gary and wife [Joanne Kyger] very interesting on Zen, he gives different picture and concrete details about it. Am having to fight for my VA money, may lose? but India so cheap that it don’t matter. They got great music, we met Chatur Lal,5 [plays] a tabla, two-drum affair—he got something and so we go hear him tonight. Have to be off now—if you got time and I know you might be interested to visit Laff. He’s at Central Islip State Hospital in Central Islip, Long Island—he’s been there about three months—my mother put him in and got herself in by “trying to put him out of his misery” as she puts it, by stabbing him in police station. She out—thanks to Allen’s Eugene [Brooks], but it looks like Laff be there for some time maybe. [. . .] I write Laff, but he no write—would like to know what he thinks he’s doing there and what he thinking about—otherwise it all will be a mystery and dead silence till I get back to New York City in some years. You can even buy cheap morphine in drugstores without a prescription. They just sell it to you—I’m on right now! All’s well! [ca. March 21, 1962: poem] I did not look like Indian and so not mad, Here I am in India and still (or yet) I don’t look like an Indian

* * * Editor’s Note: As Orlovsky mentioned in the previous letter to Gregory Corso, he was in danger of losing his VA disability benefits. His case was under review and for the next few months the government withheld his check, making him fill out new forms and submit to a mental ex4. Sadhu. An Indian holy man. 5. Chatur Lal (1925–1965). One of the Indian musicians who helped popularize traditional Indian music in the West during the 1950s and 1960s.

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amination. It took awhile, but in the end, the VA agreed with its earlier ruling that Peter was mentally disabled, and in fact the administration raised the amount of his benefit check. Peter wrote the following letter in response to their request for information. Although interesting, it is filled with exaggerations aimed at proving he had an unsound mind. [March 26, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Delhi to “whom it may concern”]

To So and So: Dear Sir: My life was in danger—I had to leave for India—I am here now—things are crazy at home. There is much disease here about in India—I don’t know what I am getting myself into—the world is more than half mad— as judge my family. I am trying to develop my spiritual peace of mind here (though holy men here I meet are much better than my mother or father). My mother stabbed my brother in police station where she was committing him to madhouse—so cops put her in too—she is there with my two brothers and my third brother was there before for a year and a half and again for a half year. My other brother has been there for eight years now, I guess. I will leave it up to you to arrange for examination here in India—let me know at what place in India you want to examine me—I will not come back to New York unless in a coffin. My father has had high blood pressure after he broke his leg—I have been in India one month. I can’t fill out your form and return it to you because my family (mother) sent me a handwritten copy of the form. My mother just got out of the mental hospital and sent me your letters, that is why I waited so long before answering. [. . .] Please tell me when my veteran’s compensation money will be continued. [April 7, 1962: journal]

Dream: [President] Eisenhower, Dorothy Norman,6 some others, and paper-dollish high-class whore chicks, I am trying to approach for some nervous problem is on my mind—but something basic won’t have it and in fact these important people want to keep away from me, as I from them—then next to their room where they sit and drink and converse is a room of high-class whores with one or two girls standing like statues with subdued light on their ass and breast crack and face—I see a Senator or somebody high with money like a business executive around forty [years old]—with a kind of stick-on face—come in their room to strike a deal—I sit and watch this from my chair in nearby other room—on the other side of my room sits Dorothy Norman and 6. Dorothy Norman (1905–1997). American writer and photographer.

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her few friends—talking—I am sort of caught between their moral repugnance and my returning guilt at their feeling so—so I try to sit like a prince or senator or somebody like that—but it all falls to pieces—the party and scene turn into ruins that I am now walking around in with maybe Joanne [Kyger], Allen, and some others—she hands me a stick of pot—made of two cigarettes stuck together—then it dawns on me [Bob] Kaufman and his four friends were running the pot scene—rather they were discovered as masterminds that ran a house full of strange people and now was in ruins and abandoned—to walk among these ruins now was sad feeling—Eisenhower in the kitchen—mixing himself a lemon soda—I am trying to get up enough steam to approach him with some important problem—they all keep away from me like I was a skunk.

* * * Jerked off last night thinking of what my first Indian whore girl might be like. Two days before this, Allen and I blew each other and the night before that I jerked off twice and same for night before that and day before that in train john once. [April 7, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Ajintha, India, to Marie and Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Marie and Kate: Well, we just got thru seeing the Ajanta caves, a very famous spot for art lovers, where cave paintings are on the walls by the dozen—your Northport library might have big picture book on it, ask for Ajanta cave paintings. There are some twenty-six caves, some half the size of Northport movie house and a dozen the size of Kate’s kitchen. The paintings were done two hundred years before Christ’s birth and are in remarkable shape and beauty of the bodies, ornaments, parts of houses, elephants on the move and bands of girls either shown as fanning or pouring water over a prince, the Lord Buddha. Most of the paintings depict the events of Buddha’s life. I can give you no idea of what they look like unless you go see photo reproductions in some bookstore or library. We are more in the south part of India now, about one hundred and fifty miles [from] Bombay, which is our next stop. We want to spend a few days in Ellora where [there are] also caves, only here there are more sculptures in these caves, big ones of the Buddha sitting in lotus position. So I be in Bombay in three days and will head for American Express and see if mail there from you both. One of the great things about India, aside from the cheapness of cost to live here, is the government rest houses—they are clean, comfortable houses, also known as bungalows, that are located all over India and

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especially where there are some historical monuments or stone sculptures or forts or palaces. They are also scattered up in the mountains of India not far from Tibet—people run to them in the summer to escape the hot heat of the plains and the monsoon rains that are yet to come. That’s quite a thing to see because it doesn’t rain like we know it in Northport, but rain comes down in waterfalls and raincoats don’t help much and an umbrella would be like a leaf sailing down the gutter street. So we are in that kind of rest house now—and it’s hot, though not as bad as many have made it out to be. And it’s cheap, costing only 35¢ per person for a night. Cows wander about free as dogs do in America. Funny birds make even funnier noises from big spreading trees that you see in Hansel and Gretel forests and many monkeys hop along stone walls, as I saw in Sanchi, another famous spot where there are what Indians call stupas and what Catholics call churches. Only here they are round and no entrance into it, so you have to walk around it while you pray. So around these stupas in Sanchi are stone carvings in the form of gates, four gates in all, big tall ones, having many a story on each side and many heads you see and elephant feet and lotus flowers carved all about. There’s a book that has the stories about Buddha’s past life called The Jataka Tales, a collection of some one thousand stories and the book we have has five hundred of them. I think one of the things the Buddhists believe in is reincarnation, that is that we are only rebirths of someone or some animal of the past life and that when one dies he gets reborn as someone else. Like Oleg might of been a silk worm in his past life and because of his hard work as a good quality producing silk worm, he earned the right to be reborn as a man to see how better he do. Well, we have to get up at six tomorrow so better cut this off now. [letter continued: April 13, 1962]

Thanks to a nice young Indian girl Allen and I met in New York City last year, we met her here now and she is putting us up in a white room with yummy sheets.7 We just got thru driving around Bombay streets to see Rama religious god festival celebrating his Hindu birth. [. . .] We got to get ready to go to concert of Indian music—it’s a real joy when there are great music makers who make the audience go “aue awe ah ah”—when a tender high thread of golden voice or instrument twang string is reached. Love Peter 7. Peter and Allen stayed in Bombay with Pupul Jayakar and her daughter Radhika, in their large house on Malabar Hill, one of Bombay’s wealthiest neighborhoods.

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[April 17, 1962: journal]

Jerked off yesterday surrounded by rocks at Karla Caves spot. [April 19, 1962: journal]

Allen and I blow each other and later that night I jerk off and that afternoon again jerk off in bathroom thinking of Radhika’s tiny doll body. Jerked off past twelve nights thinking of Radhika’s twelve-yearold cousin girl. [April 20, 1962: journal]

Allen and I blew each other last midnight—we both laying next to each other naked on bed. He reading Maharishi and me poems of Kali’s, when I ask: “Allen give me a blow job.”—“Huh?”—“Blow me.”— “Now?” The lights were on. Gary and Joanne were laying next to Allen sleeping.—“I’ll turn off the light.”—So Allen goes down on me and I think of that twelve-year-old girl we were at beach with that afternoon. I come feeling my face mouth kissing her tiny cunt. Allen comes up and we kiss each other on tiny places on our faces. I say, “Turn over I’ll blow you now.”—Allen says, “No, I want you to have fun,” while he kisses me on tiny spots on my face.—I say, “Don’t you want to have fun, too?”—“Yes, I do really,” he says.—So down I go and he comes fast enjoying the non-tango-tango of sex, but just laying back afloat in the wavy sweet water. Later on while he was asleep I jerk off again thinking of her twelve-year-old lip tiny joy face as I tickle with my finger her cunt. [April 23, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Bombay to Irving Rosenthal and Janine Pommy Vega]

Dear Irving and your new job and Janine if she’s around: [. . .] Allen wrote you and told you that I sent Janine a small statue of Ganesh. I hope she gets it. I have written her in every country I’ve been in and I have not heard from her in more than half a year. Maybe her mother doesn’t give her my letters or maybe she doesn’t want to answer me? I don’t know. I don’t know if you see her at all—if ya do, Irving, give her a tickle for me and tell her about the Ganesh statue coming over to her on ship. Ganesh is happy Hindu god with elephant nose dipping into sweets and who teaches the world is illusion and so don’t get frightened—perfect companion for Elise [Cowen] to meditate on—and I also got me a little statue of a cow with a smile and she is smiling because her tail is to the side and her twaty cunt is open for bull lover about to come home happy into her.

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Janine gave me a little bell on the ship before we parted for Europe— [. . .] Allen should of given her a baby so she would of had something to do—we heard from Gregory that Harry Phipps died from overdose of amphetamine and Lee Forest8 may of died we were informed—so there must be a lot of bad vibrations about in New York City these days. [. . .] Allen reading Hymn to Kali9 which is made up of about twenty-two short verses, verse six of which begins “O Devi of full breasts, whose throat is adorned with a garland of heads . . .” and verse seven is “O Mother, even a dullard becomes a poet who meditates upon Thee raimented with space, three-eyed Creatrix of the three worlds, whose waist is beautiful with a girdle made of numbers of dead men’s arms, and who on the breast of a corpse, as Thy couch in the cremation-ground, enjoyest Mahakala.” And then there is commentary explaining different references like: “Dost enjoy Mahakala: at the end of a Kalpa, there being no creation, She being inactive, and there being nought but supreme Brahman, She being in-separate from Paras’iva, experiences Herself as unlimited (Akhanda) Bliss.” Another is “Dullard: one whose mind is smitten with passion for the world.” I haven’t read the book yet, Allen has and is fascinated by it. Wants to write poem about Kali. Traveling with Gary [Snyder] and wife Joanne [Kyger] has been great—he chants a few prayers with kabuki-like breath coming from the stomach—he did it in the Aurangabad Caves for us to hear. [. . .] We be in Bombay, reading, for next three weeks, then cut to Calcutta and try get into Sikkim and Darjeeling. Hoping there Tibetans might have thangkas for us to dream in front of. So long from Bombay, love and flower Peter [April 24, 1962: journal]

Help! Again I jerked off thinking of sweet Radhika—only this time I fantasize that she wants me—she pulls me into her room and she pulls my cock out and kneels down to suck on it while she looks at me with eyes of hot pursuit desire—then she leads me over to the bed—but before she does that she goes into a stand on her head, yoga posture, and swings wide open her legs, wants me to slowly look there and come with my mouth to the mound of hairy lips open and juicy soft—and then on the bed she wants me to put it in her while she says “Oh my God” as she has said when we were walking down street from poetry reading—“Oh God it’s stuffy”—it’s the funny way she says it—that makes me [think] that she might say the same if we were fucking or if she and her boyfriend were fucking. 8. Lee Forest was an American fashion model who lived in Paris at the Hotel de Londres in 1956. 9. Hymn to Kali, by Arthur Avalon (1922).

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[April 29, 1962: journal]

Went swimming last night in tank mid-dark swim. As I lay on my back floating I see two falling meteorites go in a minute. [May 1, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Bombay to Marie and Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Marie and Kate: This [is a] fast note, for I am going with Mrs. Jayakar, a real great forty-seven-year-old girl whose place we live in with her young daughter that am sending you both a picture of. Her name is Radhika and she may love by now, I don’t know, but it would be wonderful to have an Indian girlfriend for a change. The family is very rich and [there are] other relatives about here on this hill who are even richer but not so like a writer-minded and open to the wonders of subjective experiences, you understand? So if I marry her we could all be rich. Well, it’s nice to think that anyway—even if not happen—Radhika is only twenty-two or three and she’s working on her PhD in philosophy—I was amazed to hear that this morning. [. . .] Am reading these magical books of old ancient stories of Hindi mythology—all about Lord Krishna—have you ever heard of him? How about that happy god called Ganesh, who has the body of a man, fat belly, and the trunk nose of elephant? He is all over India on shop walls in pictures. He brings success and helps the helpless. Great fellow, my favorite of all the Indian gods. The most funny too and with his trunk he dips into a bowl of sweets to sweeten up a bit. I bought a statue of him and will show you when I get back. Love— Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: In April Snyder and Kyger returned to Japan. Peter and Allen remained in India for more than a year and immersed themselves in Indian culture. [May 4, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Bombay to Gary Snyder and Joanne Kyger]

Hello back in Kyoto friends: [. . .] We been up all night talking and Allen started writing that poem to Kali he will tell you about.10 We are still here at Radhika’s flat 10. This became Ginsberg’s poem “Stotras to Kali Destroyer of Illusions.”

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and Sunday we all go to hear Ravi Shankar and Ali Akbar Khan11 play together. We stay here for a week more and then go off to Calcutta, Sikkim and Darjeeling—Radhika was planning to come, but [it is too hot] in Calcutta and she just found out her blood count is below normal, so she has to eat more and take injections of vitamins. [. . .] We will see her later in Varanasi where she wants to go to school to learn something, Sanskrit, etc. [. . .] What you think of “Beatnik Poetry, Free”—for New York City’s World’s Fair in 1964? We can open a booth, much madness to give away, etc. A kiss a ticket. Want to come in on it? Love Peter [May 8, 1962: journal]

Allen jerks off in bathroom while I am washing my hands in sink—he kneels down on floor and covers his face between my ass—it gets him hotter—before we were on the bed, a finger in his ass and baby oil on his cock to jerk him off with, but he no come—the opium delays climax though keeps excitement—he was blowing me, but I too high on opium to come and that afternoon I had jerked off in bathroom toilet seat.

* * * Editor’s Note: Jack Kerouac wrote to Peter to ask him the details of his visit to Tangier. As usual, Jack wanted to get the accurate story straight from the horse’s mouth. Peter answered him and also encouraged him to come to India, saying that Gregory Corso would soon be there as well. Neither Gregory nor Jack ever made it to India, however. [May 11, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Bombay to Jack Kerouac]

Dear Jack me brother boy: Die after you see India, not before!12 I have never been to a greater place, divine cow shit plop paths to follow, come on the next bird [plane]—you said you would once you got court wife trouble child over with, so what’s now to hold you?—nothing—so come like you said you would and then all our New York family be here, because Gregory [will] be here in a month or sooner—I told him to kidnap you, but you have to lend your magic feet to help. 11. Ravi Shankar (1920–2012) and Ali Akbar Khan (1922–2009). Classical Indian musicians who became very popular in the West. 12. A variation on the old saying “See Naples and die!”

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Well, that Tangier scene is all over with, but what it was, was something, although Allen’s picture alright up to a point, but left things out. So, to you as confessional-father priest, you Catholic fart—here is July 6 Tangier scene I wrote down while the shit was in the fan. [Peter included his July 12, 1961, journal entry here. It can be found earlier in this volume.] That’s that, Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: On February 1, 1962, while Peter and Allen were traveling, Elise Cowen had committed suicide at her parents’ home in New York City. This is the first time Peter mentions her death in his writing. [June 1, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Marie and Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Marie and Kate: I am in Calcutta now, it’s raining lakes in the street, kids screaming [with] excitement and running wild, drains clogged up and a cool wind that takes care of the building heat and humidity. We will be here for two months more. Have met many young and old Bengali poets here. The only trouble is they write poems like England did in the nineteenth century, so much is not so good. There is a girl here whose name is Hope Savage, a girlfriend of Gregory Corso, but they split up years ago when Gregory went to San Francisco and she to India in 1956. She is learning Persian and likes to visit tribal and nomadic tribes as she did in Saudi Arabia. Yes, Elise [Cowen] did die tho it’s sad no one was around to lay a calm hand on her and tell her that the world is a dopey illusion anyway and no point getting frightened about one thing so much. [. . .] I see a dog taking a piss in a puddle of water that’s got him half covered. The streets are all flooded, alleyways are packed with water, muddy with paper and bits of garbage floating about like tiny clouds on earth. The rain has let up so more people are walking about. Some tiny stores get washed out. Last night it rained at midnight when all were asleep on the street, for that’s where most of the people sleep in Calcutta. They just got a little mat and blanket and horrible looking dirty pillow and set up home for a night through all the nights of the year and morning comes early, they get up and hop off to whatever job they got to do. When it rained it woke them up, some not believing it was raining until it came down [harder], then they scramble for cover wherever it be. [. . .] I watched from balcony of my hotel half naked in white pajamas kind of clothes everyone wears here. [. . .] Bunches of

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families are wading thru muddy puddles, old women looking like Kate are wading, holding up their saris (dresses), and young girls like Marie are perturbed but enjoying the puddle walk and scores of umbrellas are held by men just standing in leg deep lakes by curbs looking at wandering cows maneuvering this way and that to steer clear of the puddles. [. . .] Allen is now in Darjeeling, a beautiful mountain place above Calcutta some four hundred miles. It’s Darjeeling where the famous tea is grown and sent all over the world that Nick likes so much. Also there are Tibetans living there that Allen wants to meet and speak with, and monasteries for Tibetan religion that are very real and exciting and enchanting, full of prayers and singing and banging gongs and horns. [. . .] Bye bye now, love and flowers Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Ginsberg lost his passport at this time, which was unfortunate because he intended to leave India to visit the small country of Sikkim (now a state of India) on the northern border. Instead of canceling his trip, he tried to get a new one while he was on the road, hoping that they would make an exception for him. Peter stayed in Calcutta to work on the paperwork to have his VA disability checks restored. When he learned that it was illegal for actors in India to kiss on stage and in movies, Peter was shocked. Whenever he met actors after that he encouraged them to kiss as an act of protest. Many letters from this era have been omitted because they were secretarial in nature. Even in India, Allen was in constant demand and more and more, Peter assumed the role of Allen’s office staff. [June 1, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Allen Ginsberg in Darjeeling]

Hi Allen: You may not get to Sikkim now—spoke to Mr. Banerjee of USIS13 [. . .] who said there’s little he can do until you appear here in front of him and go thru swearing in and fill out form. Then you shall have no trouble in getting your new passport. [. . .] you just might get by on Sikkim visa—if you got—that alone may be enough to get you into Sikkim and out—also go to Deputy Commissioner in Darjeeling to see if they found your passport. Have you tried that yet? [. . .] Have also met Abu Sayeed Ayyub of Quest14 for evening chat—gave him your Howl and Kaddish for homework—he straight, though philoso13. USIS. The United States Information Service. 14. Abu Sayeed Ayyub (1906–1982). Indian philosopher and intellectual and an editor of Quest, a literary journal.

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pher minded, was interested in drugs—I told him India needs an open public kiss—he said dysentery and good water supply more important on list—Poet Shankar took me to the Open Theatre on Rashbehari Avenue and saw comedy play—met actors and managers and got into funny talk about kissing and how it’s sad goofy actors don’t dream and try kissing on stage, in plays and movies—no one in India willing to go to jail for kiss and what a beautiful thing to go to jail for. I couldn’t stay at Burmese and Buddhist dharamshala15—so moved to hotel at 101 Mahatma Gandhi Road—6 rupees a day—will try to find a cheaper dharamshala—yesterday Hope [Savage] and I spent afternoon visiting Jain temple and big mosque. Her Persian learning coming along. [. . .] Hope and I saw Macbeth, Shakespeare. [. . .] Rain here at midnight—joy excitement as dozens awake dreamy from falling rain—it beginning to start, monsoons are coming. Love Peter [early June 1962: journal]

In Chinese restaurant, Calcutta—it’s near Burmese Buddhist Dharamshala. I order sliced chicken with mixed vegetables. Two old Chinese simple-dressed old ladies work serving, like my mother, only one [has] long pigtail come down to her slacks. She is always smoking like my mother. [. . .] The other old lady is sweet-looking with her own natural kind [of] beauty, I would gladly have for a second mother. And lotus [grass] hopper jumps on my toe and tickles it, but that funny looking crawler with two hooks at his ass end, I don’t want him on my knee. We come here a lot. Indian food tasteless and overcooked. [. . .] The rain has begun pre-monsoon in Calcutta—my virgin body is new to it. Hope [Savage] interesting good girl full of eye sparkle and enthusiasm for nomadic Arab Berbers, etc. But after meeting her for a few times now, there is on the inside a love touch she denies to herself with me. It’s a funny kind of anti-personal sexual recognition of my feelings and when I get personal she says I ask stupid questions. Well, it’s lovely to talk to her, but here in India I find too much else to be engaged with, so I leave her to her own world and enter mine. See her once and a while. [June 2, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Robert LaVigne]

Hello Perennial Painter in law: Allen is up in tea Darjeeling hanging around Tibetan thangka monk painters—he says they’re not as delicate and perfect as old Tibetan masters. We bought some thangkas and for four hundred bucks can get 15. Dharamshala. An Indian rest house.

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Peter Orlovsky pausing for a picture with his guitar case on the Howrah Bridge, 1962, Calcutta. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

knock-out dreamers as good as Breughel and with the multi-thousand details of tiny little scenes upon tiny scenes and demons with fifty feet, a thousand arms and hands and fingernails and and and—I got one of two skeletons dancing arm and leg intertwined and skull-jaw smiles that would light anybody’s tickling eyes. Allen’s got two for his brother—will let Allen describe them to you, but they got funny cartoon, expertpainted face and body lines and even butcher blood cut leg flying over green mountains cloud rain. So he’s up in that painting land now where many Tibetan monasteries are and he listens to prayer hums and drums, horns, and gongs. I got to stay here in Calcutta for Veterans mental examination [in order] to continue my VA disability. We will stay couple months here, May rains now make lakes in the streets and whole alleys get flooded—joy shouts, kids run naked hollering happy, men pick up their dress (dhoti)16 as they select paths through muddy pools—boy, if a scene like that could be painted in five minutes. [. . .] Indian music we listen to a lot—it’s like jazz and continually spontaneous—we know some of the top players—Ali Akbar Khan a sarod player and Chatur Lal, a tabla player. Sarod is like a guitar, only different string arrangements and it has more human and sweeter sound, so that I may give up this German guitar I got and go for sarod and take lessons at a music college here run by Khan above. He has records out and you 16. Dhoti. A loincloth worn by Hindu men.

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may know someone who has his work and the other one we know and hear is Ravi Shankar, a sitar player. Well, I’ll be off, good to hear from you, and sure we be friends and always lovers till the ants carry us away to a new flag kingdom. And give my love to others I know and show them this letter, so I don’t have to write over myself again. Love and lotus Peter [June 5, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Allen Ginsberg]

Hollo Dear Allen Wang:17 [. . .] I got guitar wang in my new little room alone here on Chandni Chowk Street near Hope’s YWCA in Chandni Bazaar—3.75 rupees a day—I moved from place on Mahatma Gandhi Road where they got me for 6 rupees a day—this better—there is room, double bed waiting for us upstairs on Tangier-like roof, with three windows and got the street crowded below, so that’s something to tell you. [. . .] Met another fellow by accident when looking for Nimtallah burning ghats where chandoo and charis are smoked by the holy sadhus for serene meditation and you see many passing the charis pipe around. Went late last night, it is along the Howrah Bridge—you remember when we first walked over that, the day we stopped to see the bathing going on in front of what we thought were temples, well, that place turns out is a gathering place for sadhus who use, some, chandoo and charis—last night I, walking by burning ghats and down dark alleys, came across a big group of sadhus sitting under a tree with a group of workers talking and humming sweetly and being lovely sociable, but they could not direct me to chandoo, so still on track of smell. [. . .] Hope [Savage] is off tomorrow, off for Pakistan for two or three weeks and then be back here, maybe—have been seeing her and talking to her and am bored by her dry, rigid ideas of poetry and miss a kind of immediate personal, touch-soul, contact with her, so I am less hankering to make it with her, though she got twinkle-eye-smile contact there. Poor Gregory, and she didn’t even like/love his poetry. What a couple of old dated poetry Indian feathers they keep using. Enough, generalizations are stale, too. Met a lot of dopey young poets who got much to learn. Yes, it’s raining, streets [are] lakes, but the ghats were something—saw legs in the burning pile, we take pictures when you get back. It’s really a beautiful sight and am glad I found the place. Good for drawing and interesting people to meet there. Address here is Hotel Amjadia, 74 Princep Street. Love Peter 17. Wang. A Tibetan ritual of empowerment.

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[June 6, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Gary Snyder and Joanne Kyger]

Dear Gary and Joanne and big Shakti mouth [Alan] Watts, if he be around: Allen’s up in Darjeeling getting wang, he said fellow there, monk friend of Dali Lama’s secretary, up there in monastery, doing music and prayer chanting. He also reading in library and will get into Sikkim soon now, he’s been up there a week already and be back on 10th. I got to stay here for army exam to keep getting my VA allotment. It’s been cut off temporarily. [. . .] Today I met a psychology couple from Harvard, friends of Tim Leary, who laid two highs of mescaline on me. Will use or pass on to someone here who may want. Am still trying to get hold of LSD but no word from Leary, though I hear his supply of mushroom pills has been cut off cause of too much scandal. [. . .] Am going about, putting [together] a little thing of my poems, English on one side and Bengali on other, five hundred copies to sell for 8¢ or 8 annas a copy. Well, that’s 3¢ cents above my dream price, but got to accept some compromise unless I use toilet paper maybe. Gregory in Tangier, he wrote saying he don’t know if he come to India. Wants to write a big, long book about Hope Savage. He will write her a letter full of praise and she will think “what the hell is he praising me for?” Anyway, he wants to be alone and afraid if he comes here he will get too involved meeting too many people with us, so don’t know his plans for sure and no word from Jack [Kerouac], but he is so bizarre he might get on plane, plunk down drunk, and show up here any day. [. . .] Peter [June 26, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Well Kate, have not heard from you in quite a while. You seem to be going through your common period of Russian silence and isolation in new summer kitchen. [. . .] Am interested to hear from Marie [that you are] reading Catcher in the Rye, glad you doing things like that in your spare time, and although it’s alright as a book I don’t think it compares to Celine’s two books about his life and travels and early family life. The book about his early family life is, I believe, called—Death on the Installment Plan—all about his early upbringing with his mad father and active notions [about his] mother involved with 1901 Paris World’s Fair Exhibition—it’s a spinning story full of the racy thoughts that goes thru an interesting person’s mind—the problem was for Celine to capture or deliver, on paper, that stream of mind thoughts and impressions that actually go thru everyone’s mind—to do this is no easy task though

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for some it can be, Kerouac has learned much from Celine’s writing method and thinks highly of Celine. I remember what you found objectionable to Celine was his bitterness and foul-minded dirt that he threw out in his writings, but actually I have heard you go off on streams of talk in moods like him [. . .] and you have gotten so carried away by what you were saying sometimes that you have used similar foul words to describe your feelings in these instances, if you can remember correctly. And there is another reason why I find Celine so real in his writing is that when he tells you something about his life he uses his great powers of perception or gives you or throws at you the complete circumstances of the real scene—like a movie camera recording the actual goings on of a group and their words and actions in a given scene or bar or flat or in the street. So he’s giving you a chunk of real life as he sees it thru his eyes describing actual things—whereas most writers excepting Hemingway types give too much generalizing about life and too few real touches of that actual content of the mind and its stream of racing mind-jumps that if caught and transported onto paper can be highly interesting. Another thing, try to get hold of Kafka (or you did and no like?)—say his short story Metamorphosis or The Trial. [. . .] Jack [Kerouac] sees himself as a recording angel or something like that, so before he dies he will of completed a Balzacean sports-like coverage reporter taking notebook account of everything that passes his eye of vision. It’s a monumental task and he already has more than a decade of writing experience to push him on. [. . .] My fingers are getting lots of exercise on guitar, love and flowers, Peter [June 26, 1962: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Calcutta to Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Marie: [. . .] Here’s a magazine story on us and American poetry with a picture so you can see my long hair that’s getting real girlish now and [even a] little longer. The newspaper men here in India are kinder than American newspaper men have been to us in the past and still keep up their mad monster image [of] Beatniks. [. . .] Allen came back from Darjeeling and Sikkim a week ago. He took trip up that way to meet some Tibetan monks in great old monasteries there, we may both go back and do some studying of ancient manuscripts on secret Tibetan doctrines. As interesting luck will have it, we have been invited to a Bengali Literary Conference that is to take place in Behar, about two hundred miles outside of Calcutta. It will go on for four days so we will get to meet many more poets in India of all kinds. Love and Flowers Peter

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[July 6, 1962: journal]

Opium pipe last night and shot of morphine tonight—Reading book on Tibet—shallow source material goes to make up the book—[. . .] Calcutta streets—it’s a great never-ending movie, the cows walk alone at night—waiting for something to think or lick—It must be 2 or 3 AM and I can hear a singer way down the block. [July 8, 1962: journal]

My birthday with some chandoo.18 My 29th day of birth—(fuck it). [July 10, 1962: journal] Another night with Chandoo— Mister cigarette, you seem to want Intimate friendship— Now I know how to light you— Treat you as a real Thing coming to do me Harm Each time I go for a cig— I will conjure up a thousand faces of your coral dripping lips— Your evil influence and intrusion on innocent baby bodies— For years I have failed to see the face that is you— Your teeth of ash sticks to the potato in my ear— You’ve made my lung cells into brick slate slabs for your God! [July 13, 1962: poem] Early morning wake up in Calcutta Looking out my Amjadia Hotel Window on third floor Onto Chandni Chowk Street— I see someone in white sitting on a white bed rack On the sidewalk, looking like he’s Meditating beautifully A black hood big wheel rickshaw Parked by the curb with the Coolie man sitting in his own Buggy smoking a beedi19 for sure. Oh yes there goes now a young Bengali girl in red sari, her Black pig tail flopping smoothly. Here on a red brick roof top a 18. Chandoo or chandu. The street name for opium. 19. Beedi. A thin Indian cigarette.

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Black crow stood thumbing his Or her wing. Then another rickshaw came But the first got the mother and girl Crows hop over curb puddle Stream—it’s the water color Pale orange green looking that comes From open pipes on every street As a help cause not enough Reservoir water Bicycle bell thumb ring noise What did the rider look like I Don’t know More red seat rickshaws roll down The street I wouldn’t mind a week’s job at It just for kicks But I guess I’ll be doing that Job in another universe I hope!— The young mother, I see her Swishing children’s clothes about Through her gray Paris-like wooden windows— There’s a brass pot shaped lamp like On her flat window edge and the Outside plaster crumbling so I Can see the red brick squares And the two story rusty burnt steel red water drain pipe He now has finger in mouth Rubbing teeth—her husband I guess or maybe somebody’s Brother—I wonder how Many in that family I will See come to the window— I see a monsoon baby cloud Like the size of Chinese kite— Smoke from a fourth story veranda— Are you cooking your japatis?20 Allen sleeping on bed naked Almost—I just stop death on Mosquito on his back that had Already got a back bump going I wouldn’t of seen it if I Didn’t think of looking at him To write his sleep here— That one is a Mohammedan His green lehnga21 girl dress like 20. Japati or chapati. An Indian flatbread. 21. Lehnga. An Indian wedding dress.

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Shape long skirt hanging low Around his thighs—ass—a yellow rag towel Over his shoulder— Only this one coming now— Got a dhoti on and long brown shirt— A bicycle box and peddle man rides By—I wonder how much he makes A month—60 rupees or 12 dollars worth? [July 29, 1962: journal]

In the Chandoo Rest House. I came early, the old, short, skinny underwear Chinaman goes out to fetch the artist. 6:40 PM a broken glass smell of the place, a wooden shoe on the old tile floor under a flat stool. Through the half open shutter I see a boy behind his room bars scratch or pat or see if dirty. My pipe man came, hope I can ask about China. A tiny black cap jar good for eight pipes, taking it all in one long minute breath fills my stomach, occupies my throat. After the third I get all-body relaxing tingle at work as feeling like just after come fuck as you go limp atop her—a collective sensation. The pipe [is] made of bamboo and bulb of a door knob shape near one end, a little funnel dot hole the donut-shaped opium is wiped up, putty like, and rolled, pressed into the funnel and [he] sticks the needle through the donut for air to go through as I draw. The older the pipe the better the high. From another window across the alleyway I see a girl and her hair swings as she leans over the balcony to see something—a goat smelling an old wooden shoe—a light bulb with a rag over it—one of the two dogs grumble in the hallway. Allen came in and now he’s drawing on his hip.

* * * Editor’s Note: In the following entry Peter makes his first mention of Manjula, an Indian girl he began to see while in Calcutta. For a while they contemplate marriage and think about having children. [July 31, 1962: journal]

Smoked chandoo an hour back. [. . .] I wonder if Manjula loves me. It’s been healthy to know her. Was just figuring how interesting it would be to try and track down all 8-B grammar school classmates in Flushing. On some rainy nowhere day, pushing the past closer to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to find James Stewart—or colored Gloria whom I started getting hard-on, “you touch me here, I touch you there.” I don’t

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remember all their names or addresses, maybe I can go to P.S. 24 and ask records to tell me—is that a possible thing for me to do? Can they give the names and addresses just like that to a nobody me? I hope, it would make it a lot easier for me. Early morning, Allen comes kneeling on my bed and asks for a kiss. [. . .] I ask him to go down on me and he unloosens my pajamas and slips my underpants off and I ask him to scratch me all over practically—arms around each other like a married couple for a while. And next I see he’s on top [of] me shoving his cock between my legs—I fit it in so to give cock more full rub between legs—he came fast saying what? I forget—we hadn’t made it in three weeks or so—he always knows best to get me when I’m high on opium. I didn’t come—thought I could if he worked more—but then felt just a fine tingle sensation. [August 2, 1962: journal]

12 PM Chandoo. Back to my bed—I see a leopard skin covering the room, ceiling, walls, floor—big heap of it in corner—some leopard skins floating around eye level—and teeth covering the light bulb—a tail coming from the door knob. No sounds of meow. We gave a reading at Indo-American Society this evening—a gentle girl name Carol Bang was seated listening near me—I need, want, so much to talk and feel—we can compose—she’s a painter, right up my alley—I want to ask her—“Say Carol, let’s be in love while we are around”—a funny opening—I will ask her to come to Konarak sex [temple] or is it impractical? We could make great love and so as last night rolled on into early morning I got up and Allen’s mouth so innocently laying there—wanted to rub my cock on his lips—and when he awoke he took it in sitting on top of him knew how good it would feel when he lip bit—then I went to my back, but too high to come, so we gave that up and jerked him off—he came before I knew it—This is the second time now we made it and I no come—I understand that from experience so it’s alright—it’s great to fall asleep, sometimes right after coming and not have to pump to make him or her come. So I rolled back to my bed and started thinking about—what?—the loss of my brother Nick hardly ever writing me. I will write him a letter now—am curious what’s he thinking about. There’s no place in Calcutta I can get spaghetti! [September 28, 1962: journal]

Manjula would like photo of Kafka to send her when I get back to USA.

* * *

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Editor’s Note: On October 1, 1962, Peter finally received a notice from the VA stating that he was considered to be 50 percent disabled and would begin receiving an increased disability check in the amount of $107 per month. [October 13, 1962: journal] Today I study some characters By god— Who? By who— By me— Okay. [October 21, 1962: journal]

Calcutta afternoon. Hop off into Chinatown and smoke opium again. Through the den window I see the two yellow toy-looking mosque minarets past the tin roofs of Chinatown. Coming out, I do a small drawing of the poor beggar man I know slightly—his skinny arms and folded legs I want to imitate. [It is] impossible to get the scabs of dirt, like the bumps of shell of a lobster.

* * * Editor’s Note: In mid-December, Peter and Allen moved to Varanasi (then called Benares), the holiest city in India. There they found an apartment and settled in for several months, immersing themselves in Indian culture as much as they could. Peter started taking Indian music lessons and Allen spent much of his time with the holy men at the cremation grounds along the Ganges river bank. [December 19, 1962: journal fragments] Benares: roof top looking It’s dangerous to put flowers On your baby when Cows are around Two bananas in my pocket To feed the monkeys When they come in a jump The little cow starving— Waiting for the lady

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Peter Orlovsky relaxing in their apartment above the Dasawamedh Ghat, 1963, Varanasi. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

Seated on the steps Behind a basket full of parsley To turn her eyes away— Yes—the beggars are lined up for food— Did you see the boy with a bag of prune leaves? The beggars are arguing over who Got the wrong puri22— So loud you can hear their voices Way up here on the roof The old man in a saffron robe Begging parsley Tottering down the street With an open bag— That guy has a nice window But I don’t think he can see the street But he can see the Ganges— The morning sun light yellows the street With ten foot shadows of dogs and cows

22. Puri. A puffy Indian bread.

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1963 [February 2, 1963: poem] Vegetable [sellers] shout And beat a stick to keep The lumpy cows from digging into Their green bushels— I’m standing [in a] door watching Everything that sits in front of Me and tries to sell whatever Or that passes me by No cruelty in looking— A healthy pair of eyes— Why not—My movie Made especially for me To wise me up in this garbage World—

* * * Editor’s Note: Late in February, Peter received an official letter that said, “Extension application rejected for stay in India has been rejected by Government of India—Leave India earliest possible time.” For the next few months, Peter tried to have his visa extended beyond the stated deadline of August 13, 1963. The Indian government felt that Peter and Allen had been in India long enough. Poet Robert Creeley wrote to offer Ginsberg a fully paid round-trip ticket to Vancouver, Canada, if Allen would participate in a poetry conference that summer. Since the Indian government was trying to persuade Peter and Allen to leave anyway, Allen decided to accept the offer. Initially he planned to go to Canada, stop in New York to visit family and friends, and then continue on around the world. He wanted to end up back in India with Peter, who hoped to get a visa extension and await Allen’s return. As it turned out, Ginsberg participated in the Vancouver Poetry Conference but did not return to India. [March 22, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to the Orlovsky family]

Hello Family: [. . .] I want to get a small size harmonium (a small piano) to use in my singing lessons I am now taking and I also have a sarod teacher here. In fact I got whole bunch of new music friends—the Hindi poets here in Varanasi are kind of dull communists, very moralistic, but am trying to make friends with them to hear their thinking—we have also

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met a bunch of swamis and holy religious men—there are so many kinds here—even a little kid, while I was bathing in the Ganges, asked me if I was a saint—not being in Saint mood, I said no. [. . .] Allen got a job teaching for three weeks in Vancouver, Canada—the university will pay his round the world air trip to $1,500. [. . .] Happy Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: In the spring Allen left Peter in Varanasi and began his trip to the Vancouver Poetry Conference. On the way Allen planned to stop in southeast Asia and Japan, before arriving in Canada in time for the conference in late July. By the time Allen left, their relationship had again become strained to the point where they were not speaking. Once on the road, they resumed a cordial correspondence and continued to exchange letters without ever mentioning the troubles they had been having. [May 17, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Allen Ginsberg in Calcutta]

Dear Allen: I have taken the room below on first floor, more cooler, bigger and seven rupees more. Did some sarod sargams exercise this morning and swam out into the Ganges at Gorango Ghats—good exercise and my young new friends there from Sonar Pura use that Ghat also. Seems like some good early morning exercises and right intake of food puts the body in good shape for the rest of the day to carry on other tasks. Shopping here easy, lots of stray alley peddlers selling kerosene, milk, vegetables, etc. [. . .] Lots of Happy Happenings to do here. Love and pisses Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Orlovsky had been consulting with Ginsberg’s brother, Eugene Brooks. As a lawyer on Long Island, Eugene was able to give Peter practical legal advice. Peter had hoped that by marrying his Indian girlfriend, Manjula, she could easily become an American citizen, but Eugene wrote to tell him that citizenship was no longer automatic when an American married a foreign citizen. He warned that they might have

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to stay together for at least three years, maybe longer, otherwise she stood a good chance of being deported. The idea of marriage to Manjula was dropped. Peter’s own visa problems continued and before long he realized that he was going to have to leave India himself. [June 1, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Allen Ginsberg in Vietnam]

Happy birthday to you and your Chinese boyfriend lay: [. . .] In case I can’t get another [visa] extension I will leave India with $400 plus another $100 VA [check] in September, so roughly I will have $500 in September for boat fare to some place nearer to Japan, since $500 would not be enough for boat fare to Japan and out of Japan back to America. So if I got to leave India in August, according to what little information I got, I don’t need visa’s to enter Ceylon— Malaysia—Singapore—Thailand and Viet Nam—which means, I think, I can enter these countries (tho how long I can stay in each of these countries I don’t know) without having to show money and boat ticket away from their country. [. . .] I could of given ya a long blow-job for your June birthday before you left Benares, but too many things had to be done those last few days so you will have to wait till next June birthday for the licks. But here now my 30th birthday year coming up [July 8]. I would like to ask you to send me that new book by Alan Watts on his LSD experiences for my birthday present.23 That is, if it’s not too expensive and available in Japland and if you can, it would [be] very helpful to have a good simple book on how to write, read, and speak Japanese. [. . .] Manjula got my letter you mailed to her in Calcutta. I gather from Eugene’s information that if I marry her it means three year or four year hitch—Okay, love, kisses, and kidneys—are you following diet rules in order for kidney permanent healing? Love Peter What’s political scene in Saigon? Every country there going communist?

* * * Editor’s Note: After Allen left Peter alone in Benares, Peter began to write to a wider range of people again. Ted Wilentz was now taking care of his mail and sending his VA checks to him every month. In this let23. Alan Watts. The Joyous Cosmology: Adventures in the Chemistry of Consciousness (Vintage Books, 1962).

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ter, Peter asked Ted about James Baldwin’s visit with Attorney General Robert Kennedy to discuss civil rights issues. Ted said that Baldwin came away from the meeting thinking that Kennedy was naive. Peter also wrote about his own plans should his Indian visa not be extended, and for one of the first times he referred to himself as Ginsberg’s wife, something that he would do more frequently in the future. [June 6, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Ted Wilentz]

Dear Ted: Thank you and hello to the gang too. That’s real zappy speed daddy-o on that VA special. Allen in Saigon—got a letter from him from Bangkok—he met a young Thai poet there who wrote a poem that Allen helped translate about “angels coming down to earth eating shit and sawdust calculating how much shadow weighs—” Great young kids there with eight-year-old skin for $2. Everybody vastly friendly with big smiles and helloes from the gangs of kids on the streets there. I see in Time, [James] Baldwin had small summit conference with Bobby Kennedy—did LeRoi [Jones] attend? It seems like great scene the Blacks are making in America now—wish I was there, paint myself blue-ink and join in the song. I am going to New Delhi come this June 15th for the purpose of getting extension of visa to stay in India another six months. It may not be granted to me in which case by September I have to be out of this country. So send my next VA check to Delhi c/o American Express, New Delhi, India, you got that? I got an Indian slave for one hour in the morning—she a beggar woman—washes my clothes real proper and sweeps up and shops for me, too. I pay her a wage, 8 annas (10¢) that by begging it takes her almost a day [to earn] wandering thru crowded parts of Benares. There’s supposed to be something on Allen and wife [Peter] in the June or July issue of Esquire magazine—pictures of us in Benares wandering along the Ganges, talking to sadhus, etc. with a written article—you see it by chance? What’s it look like—horrible? See you in two years, love and soup Peter P.S. No, I not go to Japan fast—slowly—slowly. Burma first—if I am forced to leave India. Got postcard from Allen in Saigon—he met Newsweek and Time reporters there—says it’s a madhouse there—gave him butterflies in stomach—like a mescaline nightmare—the Viet Nam War I mean—a real bring down from India and Burma—spies all over Saigon, etc. Allen will be in Japan, staying at Gary’s [Snyder] place by June 15th about.

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[June 6, 1963: journal] A little red ant crawling by my bed mat That before bit me on the balls A big black ant carrying a mighty hunk of food somewhere—to my kerosene stove in the corner? Hello America— Hi Ma—can you hear me? Turn on your telepathy set— I’m breezing into the huge space of your unused land in brain—I seem to grow there best—whatever that means. I think by the time I get to America There should be an atom bomb for every American who wants one—mine I’d like to give to India or China. The water faucet I hear outside my room is not crying—it’s me— I used to think— I’m going to meet and talk with everyone in this world For my last twenty-seven years I’ve been feeling that Now I kiss that lovely feeling goodbye. I’m on my own like a motor boat with a $107 monthly VA check from the US Government as fuel—they think me crazy for not wanting to play deadly with their guns—and classified me so—I told the Major Army Psychiatrist “Any gun army is an army against love” he agreed and let me out of the army—that’s 1953— 15 dollars then, VA compensation—now 1963, I get $107 Too hot a deal—someone’s going to investigate me— a Senator from Alabama—hot dog—.

* * * Editor’s Note: By the time Peter wrote the following letter to Joanne Kyger and Gary Snyder, he knew that he had to leave India. Initially he asked Allen for the money to fly back to America in September, but then he decided that it was better if he made his way home by himself without Allen’s help. He couldn’t afford to visit Southeast Asia and

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Japan as Allen had and he was disappointed, but he was still looking forward to traveling west across the Middle East via train. [August 24, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Joanne Kyger and Gary Snyder in Kyoto]

Hollo Joanne and Gary: Hope you both are well in the rain. I am back here in Varanasi, waiting for my VA check to arrive and learning some more sangeet music24 singing which smoking opium this last month has clouded—I sent you Bhimsen Joshi25 record—Hope you got by now—as a present for knowing you both—hope you like it—it was the first name you mentioned in your note so figured best to send you that. [. . .] Looks like the Buddhists in Saigon are taking a beating, so far for once the U.S. is a bit on the right side—I will be heading back to America overland via Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and get cheap boat in Yugoslavia to New York City. Would of loved to of made it to Japan, but will wait a year or two for that. Okay for now—Hope you both well—Love Peter [September 15, 1963: telegram from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Allen Ginsberg]

MISS YOU LONELY WILL FLY TO YOU IF CAN SEND DOLLARS 500 FAVOURING INDIAN AIRLINE OANARAS WHERE YOU AT KISSES PETER [September 15, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Belly Allen love: Coming out of opium-morphine haze dream—I alright—reread your letter yesterday—had completely forgot its sayings—I am so glad you wrote me saying what you said, I take you as my divine Love Guru, you kept humming belly-love on my ear, and letters until I got your meaning— swing open your Blake gates. [. . .] I wired you today for money to fly to you, but now I think it better you use money like for Phil Whalen, etc.—I can make it back to New York City overland—on my own VA money—Like you say—we meet in New York City at Christmas my love—[. . .] Kisses Love Peter 24. Sangeet. A combination of Indian vocal music, instrumental music, and dance. 25. Bhimsen Joshi (1922–2011). Indian classical singer.

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* * * Editor’s Note: While he was in India Peter had heard stories about how bad conditions had become in their old New York City apartment in 1961. Letting drug users like Janine Pommy, Herbert Huncke, and Bill Heine act as guardians for Lafcadio had not been a good idea. His mother reminded him of how they had abused and taken advantage of his mentally fragile younger brother. Kate believed that whatever had happened there was what had sent Lafcadio to the mental hospital. She didn’t want history to repeat itself once Peter returned home. [September 16, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Varanasi to Kate and Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Kate and Marie: I am here in Varanasi again, learning more singing from my teacher. Got both your notes you wrote me on July 25. Sorry to hear about Lafcadio’s trouble. I am thinking of coming home and get him out and get apartment. Yes, it not good he “getting fucked up the ass and choked and beaten up.” I don’t think Allen desecrated Lafcadio that much and what little he did it was done when Lafcadio had a general love for Allen. Allen worried and asked me if he should do sex play with Laff. I said it was alright if done under friendship and love and it didn’t seem to upset him then. But it’s not that sex cock play with Allen that sent Lafcadio back to bug house. It was me and my stupidness in making bad arrangements for him before I left New York City and also my leaving him—it was me, I failed under the burden of helping him. Please forgive me. I come home and correct my mistake—we all got to love each other again as we always really did in our hearts. Allen knows. He is trying to love girls and not close them out of his life. We all not perfect. Walt Whitman loved men, too. I am sorry we have not talked more freely to each other about sex in the past. You are [a] very understanding mother. I see that and have always felt that in you. Marie, I am glad you said that Lafcadio asks about me. I have been thinking much about him these past weeks. I think he wants me to come home and help get him out of there. I can and am glad to help him, though he may be financially dependent on me for life. Allen will be in New York City at Christmas and we get apartment or farm to hold everybody, maybe we all get married, Laff too. Everything will be alright and is alright. We must have faith.

* * *

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Peter Orlovsky portrait for official documents, 1963, India. Photo Courtesy of the Peter Orlovsky Archive, University of Texas.

Editor’s Note: In September Peter left India via train heading west through Pakistan. As an American, he was repeatedly asked for bribe money from policemen and government officials. Not knowing what to do, he decided to just give them all his money and travel as a beggar. In each instance, the person didn’t know what to make of him and either took a small amount or returned all of his money to him as he describes in his journal. [September 23, 1963: journal]

Monday. Policeman asked me for friendly baksheesh [bribe]. So after pondering like a chicken on this crowded family Pakistani train, I gave it to him, $180 in travelers checks and 26 dollars and 34 rupees—passing my money around the train compartment. They are very interested in the value of American dollars and what you can get for it in Pakistani money—so now the policeman wants to give it back to me. He does and I wait until someone else asks me for it and give it away again—No—I take it back and buy cheap food for few Pakistanis I have the love interest to buy for. Here I am on desert train. They give me all the money back. I feel better and don’t worry about money now—just learn how to use it to help others. Pakistan needs more food, so things of love help can be accomplished. [. . .] Policeman asked me again for ten rupees so I gave it to him. Boy, this is getting me home fast, all this friendliness.

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[September 25, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Pakistan to Allen Ginsberg]

Hello Hindi Long Sweet Beard Hair Eyes: Was just crying, thinking you may die before we meet again. A beautiful thing just happened to me here in Quetta, Pakistan. A beggar was sitting across the street from a tea shop. So I went over to him and gently offered him a big long nan bread and he took it. I think he was a crazy beggar like my brother Julius and your mother’s sunlight limelight keys.26 He later walked away. So I hopped after him to give him a rupee. He wouldn’t take it. Then another beggar walking by wanted it. Gave it to him and took out another rupee to offer again, he wouldn’t take it, so I got down on the road to kiss his feet and looked up at his eyes offering him the rupee again. He took it. [. . .] I cry to think I may die or my money get robbed and I not get back home to see you again. I am sorry to worry over such things. There is so much joy good things of help and love to give in the world that I don’t want to die before it’s done. I hope LeRoi [Jones] is happy and alright. Sorry I didn’t make love with him when he wanted me to. [. . .] I leave Quetta on Saturday for train to Zahedan, Iran. In New York I [want to] get job or work for America on my army pension. I be all right my friend. [. . .] I would like to come back to America in my orange lungi27 and silk Jaipur chemise, if I don’t give them away before I get back. So will give my money away to beggars instead of giving away my clothes or buy a shirt or pants for them. [. . .] Love— Peter, Your Happy Slave [September 27, 1963: journal] Got smothered by ten-twelve beggars on main Quetta street The woman leading her blind father went into bank of Pakistan The door covered by huge beggar— First, two children appear asking— gave away a rupee to all ten of them— They starting to grab my hand wanting more— I get down on my knees— 26. This is a reference to Allen’s description of his mother in the poem “Kaddish.” 27. Lungi. A brightly colored cloth used as a skirt by men in India.

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I point out I am poor too wearing Benares pajamas but they want money— They know I’m a foreigner with travel money— each one wants and adds to the grabbing excitement. I don’t even have enough to get back to America they don’t know this. I’ll have to work to support them They want to do something with the money, what? buy better things I guess— [October 7, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Tehran, Iran, to Allen Ginsberg]

Hope you all happy and well. Am in Tehran, meeting so many Persians. Yesterday, Holy Mohammedan Friday, I went walking, sightseeing mosques and tombs and graveyards and went through markets and store streets saying hello to ten thousand Persians dressed in [my] orange Varanasi lungi and orange sadhu shirt tradition Calcutta. [. . .] Young student on crowded street came along side me asking what religion are you?—he want me to become Moslem, so I said yes to please him. I said I love all religions, but no you must have one only one religion, he says. [. . .] Jamaican army boxer I traveled with gave me a pair of pants. When I get too scared of night teenagers in suits, I change my India Benares cloth for pants. [. . .] I am fine, happy, and so many friends I can’t count unhappily so—cheap street food and been to market square—I don’t know, may have enough money to pass thru Europe for plane from Luxembourg to New York. If so, then can be back in New York in fifteen or twenty [days] or less—If not—will wait in Istanbul or hike through Germany to England and boat back or Holland, whatever is cheapest—maybe try hitchhiking ride from Istanbul to England or Germany or Luxembourg or Holland. Sorry so fast—have heroin in me—I love you and happy we still lovers through all the harsh times together. It takes about five days from Tehran to Istanbul. I keep healthy, happy, alive, by being honest to everybody and saying “As-salam alaykum” hundreds of times to everybody when I am not looking down at the pavement or into store windows—went to museum here—saw picture of old majoun crazy poet with a Benares bag like mine and a laughing happy child climbing up his candy bag poetry book arm. I hope I haven’t caused you too much worry or trouble with my two telegrams. I show my money to maybe crooks, so I may get robbed, and get home after Christmas—if I get robbed I will borrow

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money from American Embassy or go begging and singing for car fare in streets. Hope to walk into New York with my orange happy clothes—and talk to a thousand reporters about everything like tin drum beat sound of Günter Grass—I have to first learn how to be calm, kind and helpful. Good afternoon kiss Peter Okay my sweet love—save America too and help America to help the world. [October 19, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Istanbul to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: Got your letter and $100—thanks, was short—though can make it: will send you $50 back or give it to you in New York City. Am on train now to Sofia, Bulgaria—traveling with Iranian fellow who goes to study movies in Los Angeles [Bakht Minoo]—Glad to hear Neal [Cassady] writing—can he save his money to travel too?—Good to hear you got new Kansas boyfriend.—I go to Bulgaria, make stop in Sofia for a day and Belgrade, Yugoslavia, and then to England for boat to New York City for $182 on November 1st or November 7th. [. . .] Train is about to leave—have to run out and drop this in mail box. All is well except for sinus headache, nose drip, but will get medicine for it. Got word from my mother Lafcadio is pulling up—stayed at her place for one week. Says he thinks seriously about death and wants to get out of mad house. Love—xxxx Peter [October 28, 1963: journal]

Today bought boat ticket, Queen Mary to New York City from Southampton. [Leave] November 7th. [November 14, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Kate and Marie Orlovsky]

Dear Kate and Marie: Back in New York City again, walking and talking. All is jazzy well. Off ship on November 12, Tuesday at 4 PM and at 6 PM saw Oleg who looks real well and bouncy, working. He almost didn’t recognize me, said I looked like Russian priest with my long beard and hair. He gave me madras jacket and new pants. We talked about Lafcadio’s social security money and the Russian book Quiet Flows the Dawn [by Mikhail

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Sholokhov]. Oleg is familiar with some of the people and places and battles in it. [November 14, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg in San Francisco]

Dear Allen: Still all is well. Am here at LeRoi’s [Jones] pad. LeRoi has offered to let me stay here. They have two- and four-year-old healthy girls—Hettie [Jones] fine, looking trim and working at proofs. LeRoi teaching modern poetry at the New School. Back to meeting the poets again. Went to poetry reading last night at the Le Metro coffee house, Diane Wakoski28 read a poem with cock hat in poem. Met Ed Sanders29 handing out new issue of Fuck You, went to his pad, he turned his camera on me and asked the girl with him if he could fuck her up the ass and take pictures of her. Ed took me to Stanley’s Bar, ran into Ed Marshall who looks alright and he led me to where [Herbert] Huncke was staying. Huncke just out of Bellevue [Hospital], three days unconscious on overdose of heroin and cigarette burnt his room down but firemen and policemen saved him. He is so-so, writing letters for possible job on ship. Janine [Pommy Vega] happy in Israel house.—LeRoi is on the radio talking about you and Philip Whalen and Robert Duncan and Yugen, Blues People book. Saw Gregory [Corso]—his wife is seven months pregnant. Lent him $20. He pay me back in a week when he gets $1,000 from Esquire story. We went to Le Metro coffee house poetry reading—saw Paul Blackburn,30 Jack Micheline, and German translator. Ray Bremser back in jail. I got letter you sent me to Calcutta just before you left Vancouver and read your letter to LeRoi—glad to hear your Madame Nhu picket poem.31 LeRoi said you don’t want to read at Town Hall with him. Why? New poems not ready yet? Saw my father, he much better, just maybe some prostate gland trouble—will go out to see my mother, Jack [Kerouac] and Laff and Julius in a week or so. Saw Bonnie Bremser.32 She alright, working. [letter continued: November 15, 1963]

Al Aronowitz called a few days back and today saying he would like us both to go hear Bob Dylan, singer. Dylan is singing in New Jersey 28. Diane Wakoski (b. 1937). Poet and author of Inside the Blood Factory. 29. Ed Sanders (b. 1939). Poet and writer, author of Poem from Jail and editor of Fuck You: A Magazine of the Arts. 30. Paul Blackburn (1926–1971). Poet and author of In. On. Or About the Premises. 31. Ginsberg had written a poem declaring that war was black magic and used it as a placard during a protest against the San Francisco visit of Madame Nhu, the wife of the brother of South Vietnam’s President Diem. 32. Bonnie Bremser, aka Brenda Frazier (b. 1939). Author of Troia: Mexican Memoirs.

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at Princeton University, I think, at midnight. [. . .] All is well, doing exercises in morning for body tune shape. Still trying to stop smoking. Ganesh Peter [November 15, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Manjula in Calcutta]

Hello again dear Manjula: Your friend Peter finally back in New York City. I hope you are well and happy in Calcutta. I am writing my music sangeet teacher guru and American friend Gabriel in Varanasi now too. It is great to be back, meeting all my old friends and poets here. Went to a poetry reading the other night in Cafe Le Metro, a twenty-five-year old poetess [Diane Wakoski] read her poems with the word cock in it; surprised me. Didn’t think respectable looking girls wrote poems with that word in it. Wore my Benares Gandhi pajamas on Tehran, Iran, busses, Pakistan Quetta town, Tehran streets, and in Istanbul walked to St. Sophia in my orange lungi. London walking in pajamas to see if T.S. Eliot was at St. Stephen’s church.33 Met a lot of people along the way from India to London. [November 19, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg]

Hello Sweets: Got your postcard picture at Ted Wilentz’ yesterday evening—Ted and I went to cheap Polish restaurant on Avenue A and St. Mark’s Place. He is alright, has a new science writer student girl friend. He read me poems by Julian Beck about revolution. We went to “any poet read now” night at Le Metro. Paul Blackburn was there. He asked me if I wanted to read, so I read your post card to me and a letter Ted got from Calcutta that you sent me just before you left Vancouver. Glad to hear you have made friends with [Robert] Duncan again. Saw Huncke this morning, he is taking amphetamine, can’t afford heroin. He not doing much, some writing he said, reading Catch-22, etc. I asked him what plans he had and he said something like “what a question to ask, you know I don’t make plans.” No, I haven’t seen my family yet, wrote them all postcards except Nicky who won’t give his address out to anybody. Am waiting to hear from my family about when to come out to see them, will write Jack [Kerouac] today, thanks for his post office box number. I have it somewhere in my notebooks, but don’t know where. [. . .] Peter 33. T. S. Eliot (1888–1965) was a warden at his parish church, Saint Stephen’s.

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[November 22, 1963: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Manjula]

Friday: Sorry I don’t get this letter out to you sooner. Today President Kennedy got death bullet in head. I was hoping his brother Bobbie could run for President, but the white Jewish wife, Hettie [Jones] of the negro poet with whom I have been living with this past ten days (and their two daughters) said Attorney General Robert Kennedy could not run in next election because he is too young. Though he will be of age when 1968 elections come around. I have been wondering if you are coming this December to study at NYU or some other university or have your plans changed? [December 2, 1963: journal]

Met Allen today—comes into Northport at my mother’s: Looks fine.

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America and the Farm, 1964–1969 1964 Editor’s Note: Once Peter and Allen were both back in New York City and settled into a new apartment on East 5th Street, they became actively involved in the coffee house/poetry reading scene that had recently developed on the Lower East Side. Many of Peter’s notebooks are filled with the dates of appointments and reading schedules for his growing circle of poet friends. These activities took up a good deal of his time, as did his use of drugs, which did not stop after his return from India. He also spent time with his family on Long Island, where Julius was in the Central Islip Hospital and Lafcadio and Marie were living at home with Kate. With so many distractions, the amount of time he spent on creative writing diminished, and since he was living with Allen and seeing his family frequently, he had few reasons to correspond. [late January 1964: journal]

Ed Sanders reading at Le Metro January 30. We have demanded they ban the bomb. [June 29, 1964: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Marie and Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Marie and Kate: [. . .] I went by to pick Laff up to take him to see some great animated film by Harry Smith1 at the Film Maker’s Cooperative that is located near where Nick lives. So I hope your visit to Oleg has cleared up social 1. Harry Smith (1923–1991). Filmmaker, artist, ethnomusicologist, and compiler for the Anthology of American Folk Music.

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security and other long standing problems. I am glad to hear you have a boyfriend. It’s about time and so I hope it’s now happy time for you both. What’s he like, what’s he do, and what’s he think about? I’ll call up Julius’s doctor and let him know how things have been for Julius over this glorious fabulous exciting action weekend. And also see if I can get a week home visit to this here heaven on 5th Street. After I left Julius off at the hospital walking back to the Long Island Central Islip train station a patrol cop stops and tells me to get into his car. I not obey and instead of getting into his fucking car, I whipped out my tape recorder and started plugging it together and turned it on. “What you got there?” he asked, as if he never seen one. “It’s a tape-recorder,” I tell him and then he says, “I think ya better turn it off, Bud,” which he has no right to say.

* * * Editor’s Note: The recipient of the following letter was Bakht Minoo, the Iranian film student that Peter had met on his trip from India to Europe. Minoo was in Los Angeles working toward a college degree. [September 3, 1964: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Bakht Minoo]

Dear Minoo: I am just about fine, going to poetry readings, seeing new avantgarde inexpensively made ($50) films, one of them was banned by the city police here for having obscene parts in the film—the picture was called Flaming Creatures—you may of heard of it—made by Jack Smith.2 Also I went down to Atlantic City where the Democratic Convention was being held [August 24–27], with a group of demonstrators who were going to demonstrate in front of the convention building protesting the war in South Vietnam and hand-out leaflets saying America should stop the war in South Vietnam, help them economically [instead of] with bullets. Next to us demonstrating was another demonstration of about thirty Persians who were carrying picket signs saying the Shah of Iran should be removed. The head of Iran is a dictator and America should not support dictators. They look like students. Did you know about it, their demonstration I mean? Thought you might like to know what your fellow brothers are doing on the East coast. [. . .] Have a nice four room apartment for $21 a month on the Lower East Side poor Puerto Rican and Negro Jewish community. So this is just a hello note, have to read poems tomorrow and must prepare 2. Jack Smith (1932–1989). American underground filmmaker and actor.

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my homework poems now. So will say so long and write me a line or two—Hope you are well and learning and loving. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Oscar Janiger, the recipient of the following letter, was a medical doctor in California and one of Allen Ginsberg’s cousins. He was interested in psychedelics and was often consulted by Peter and Allen about drug issues. [September 3, 1964: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Oscar Janiger]

Hello Oscar: Keeping getting your funny collage letters of good omen and picture surprise and glad to hear you registered to vote, me too—if there’s enough of us voting on the Lower East Side on Democratic ticket we can maybe elect our own local city councilman to do our bidding for us—be great to have such a man pushing to legalize pot for us all—[Michael] McClure in San Francisco has been sending us clippings of make pot legal demonstrations in San Francisco going on now—one fellow, a week or so back told newspapers he was going to visit the police station with a stick of pot in his mouth—and there was friendly reporting in the Chronicle newspaper with a smiling picture of him and the joint. So maybe the pot smokers of America are uniting together—maybe next is a half million pot signature petition to the governor in each state. [. . .] Radio says [Robert] Kennedy just won New York Senate seat. [. . .] Love and Kisses Peter [September 11, 1964: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Annie Decker3]

Dear Annie: Sorry I haven’t written you in all this time and even since we got the Ramakrishna book you mailed to us from Cape May—all is well—having visitors at the moment—Dr. Timothy Leary and friends who are going to India to help start work building some ashrams and he also borrowed the Ramakrishna book to read. We gave him names of people we had met there. Allen and I visited Julius today in Bellevue [Hospital] where 3. Annie Decker was a girlfriend of Peter’s during this period.

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he’s been for five days undergoing examination on his rectum and Monday they will operate, his doctors are not sure of the cause—at first he didn’t want the operation, as he said, “I don’t want my meat cut,” and said it was a disgusting thing to talk [about]. [. . .] I gave a poetry reading in St. Mark’s church here with four other poets including Ed Sanders who just had a baby girl and handed out cigars. I read a sex experiment between me and Allen, but did not read the fraction of the one we did cause you said not to, so I will keep my promise until I hear otherwise from you—will try it with another girly lass and send ya a copy if ya like? [. . .] Well, there’s Barbara [Rubin],4 whom ya met, and Allen and A’s boyfriend—all three on the bed in Allen’s room naked, making it and I joined them but nobody was feeling me up, so I guess them three want to make it and came back to my room to finish this letter to you. How’s your love heat hot sex bed life doing these days? [. . .] Barbara is fine, though she got busted for a needle, is out on bail of $500, her father wants to [put] her in the bug house but she managed to change that—she comes to trial this week. Maybe suspended sentence we hope.

1965 Editor’s Note: One of the writing techniques that Peter tried to develop was to record conversations word-for-word at the time they were happening. For many years he wrote down various discussions that he had with Ginsberg, girlfriends, and family members. Occasionally he reworked these into poetry, but most of the time they were merely used as exercises in spontaneous writing. The following are two examples of this, the first a conversation with his brother Julius, which he worked into a poem, and the second a transcription of exactly what was going on at a given moment. In future years he made use of a tape recorder to collect conversations, and his archive is filled with hundreds and hundreds of hours of mundane, sometimes painfully dull, recordings. [January 10, 1965: journal] Bullshit Insanity Jumbles [composed from a conversation with Julius Orlovsky] Drink orange juice— Taking a bath— minding my own business polish shoes— 4. Barbara Rubin (1945–1980). Underground filmmaker and director of Christmas on Earth.

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listen to phonograph player— I see Lafcadio every once and a while— go on—what else ya going to say? that I do rug cleaning— that I brush teeth— that I wash face, eat spaghetti— go on— keep the gas stove on— that I wash knives and forks— drink coffee— read the Times— what else you got to write Dr. Cordon about?— that I shave myself wash the dishes— go on— I go to the store— go on— that I wash myself— go on— that I drink water— that I drink tea— take garbage out— clean bathroom floor— wash shirt, underwear— buy groceries— that I do exercises— you stopped doing your exercises— how come?— I don’t know— what else are you going to write Dr. Cordon about?— that I digest ice cream cone— write letters— cut toe nails. [January 19, 1965: journal]

Julius Orlovsky talking to his brother Peter Peter: What was the reason you were fired from your job? Julius: Laid off, quit work. Peter: Go on, continue. Julius: I worked on an oxygen moving thing and a delicatessen store. I worked in a bowling alley and delivering groceries and a book store and a paper route and a washing machine. Peter: Go on. Julius: Moving milk bottles. Peter: Go on.

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Julius: Selling Christmas cards (he picks up my cigarette, takes a puff, and then returns it to the ashtray). Peter: When did you work at Queens General Hospital? Julius: In 1964. Peter: In 1964. But you were living with me then, so you could not of been working in Queens General Hospital then. Peter: Well, let’s see . . . (Julius answers the knock on the door—in comes Panama5 asking if he left two knives here, “They were not mine.” I show him one of my knives and he says that’s not it and he goes to take a defecation of the bowels and I put the light on for him to see better in the bathroom.) How long did you work in the hospital, Julius? Julius: For one year. Peter: I am sorry Julius, let’s see now . . . (Panama comes out of the bathroom [. . .] goes out the door talking and carrying his bundle). Peter: Ya want to get me a match, Julie, in the— Julius: Yeah. Peter: Are you glad to be out of the hospital now for a year’s home convalescence, living with me and going for job training and finding yourself a girlfriend? (Julius goes to his bed and takes his pants off and his black shoes that he got at the hospital and lays down and covers himself up. I keep on typing down to my last cigarette). [. . .] Then I take a few deep breaths to make the pain on my left side go away and put the cigarette back in the clear glass ashtray. Then I go to blow my nose and get white toilet paper from the bathroom, but pause to think a while before the typewriter that was given to Allen, and have a fantasy about being stopped by a policeman on the street. He wants to ask me some detaining questions that are hostile and I want to ask him, “Are you crazy?” and then I reflect that I don’t want to call anybody crazy. So I say “No,” or everything’s alright or something like that. [January 20, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg in Mexico City]

Dear Allen: I am a bit rushed for time, so will make it short. Here is a letter from Olympia [Press] concerning Naked Lunch—just called Bill [Burroughs] up to send him his camera via [Herbert] Huncke—Bill said he has to go to Palm Beach, Florida, because his father just died and then plans to be back in New York City in a few days. 5. Panama Gabriel was a homeless handyman from the neighborhood who Peter had befriended.

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Everything here fine, except have a lot of work getting Julius straightened out—he’s been signed out of the Central Islip State Hospital bug house and I have to take him to out-patient care clinic and it’s all messed up—lousy red-tape complications [. . .] but he has not even been assigned to a physician or social worker. [. . .] Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: The year 1965 was to be a very busy year for Allen Ginsberg and by extension, for Peter. In the middle of January, Allen left for Mexico City on the first leg of a long six-month trip that would take him behind the Iron Curtain to Havana, Cuba (from which he was expelled), then on to Prague, Moscow, and Poland, before heading back to Prague (from which he was subsequently expelled), arriving in England that summer. In his absence Peter was left to take care of the New York apartment and Allen’s business affairs. Within a few weeks of Allen’s departure, Peter learned that their apartment at 704 East 5th Street was to be condemned by the city, and he had to quickly find a new place to live. [ca. late January 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg en route to Cuba]

Dear Allen: Fast note: Seems we got to move—water shut off—Building Department Notice—relocation office will give $300 or $350 if we find our own place—Have to hunt around for good cheap four-room apartment—Keep using this address until I send you different one—[. . .] Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Before long Peter found a new apartment a few blocks away where they would live for the next ten years. [February 4, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Gregory Corso]

Hello Dear Gregory: Julius and I have moved—five rooms for $61 month. New address is 408 East 10th Street, Apt. 4C. No word from Allen except for Mexico note letter from him on the 17th of January. [. . .] Julius on welfare—no

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word from Allen in Cuba. He must be busy. Hope everything alright with you. Love Peter [February 19, 1965: journal]

A happy ball up the ass with Ed Sanders’ City College student, this cold peachy Friday night 10:30 PM—she was slightly worried about getting pregnant because this is one of her fertile nights so I tried to make her come, but didn’t succeed. “Next time,” she said, so I have something to look forward to. 2:15 AM bedtime after reading Allen’s Indian Journals and Sunday Times—barricaded Ed Sanders’ Peace Eye Book Store, his glass door window broken and lock unlatched—nailed it up—and phoned him at work in cigar store at corner of 42nd Street. [February 22, 1965: journal]

Diana O. has a gallery on St. Marks Place—she won’t tell her age, but said she came twice and teaches me Russian. So, so, lovely to be liked again—and even the sad news of Malcolm X’s four bullets in the face didn’t dull my calm feeling6—Well, there’s a lot cooking, but I better get some sleep first? [February 23, 1965: journal]

My brother, Julius’s room is next to mine and I only closed my door once when the little chick said to close it—otherwise I would of left it open had she agreed to fuck with his shy eyes looking this way once and awhile—no harm—just looky look—well, maybe next time—have to find a girl for Julius—so he has something to play with instead of just himself.

* * * Editor’s Note: In March the photographer Robert Frank7 began to work on a film about Peter’s brother Julius. It took several years to shoot and edit, but eventually it was released by Frank as Me and My Brother. [March 1, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg in Prague]

Dear Allen: [. . .] Have a ball in back side streets of good old snowy grey Breughel 6. Malcolm X was assassinated on February 21, 1965. 7. Robert Frank (b. 1924). Photographer and author of The Americans.

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Prague or Moscow—Since I see how easy it is for someone like Julius to get on welfare it will be simple to get Huncke on welfare too, so will take Huncke to welfare center and fix him up—Also planning to enroll Julius in evening high school program—Sorry to hear about your no sex life—just reach out and feel—it’s the old Breughel technique or way—of course it’s best you be with the person a little while, so you can sense each other—you know—get hot—I have a CCNY student girl here, but she works me to heaven, so am going to have Ed Sanders and Robert Frank keep their cocks in line to take over when I get up or roll over— she likes it up the ass—she says you’re too fat, so I hope you’re losing weight—Frank is coming down today to film Julius at the apartment for ten minutes [. . .] How long you going to be in Prague?—should I keep sending mail on to you?—I don’t have any more checks to send you but when they come if you tell me where you be at, [I] will do. Take care of your belly sex life—love and kisses Peter [March 16, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg in Prague]

Dear Comrade Allen: Got your letter today so am writing you fast note back. Everything is all right—I got your Cuban journals [. . .] have read book one or just about, then will give it to Ed Sanders—he’s getting a free donated electric mimeo machine this afternoon. [. . .] I am doing okay with money, working at the Eighth Street Book Store, sometimes all day or two hours, so don’t have to borrow any money—[Herbert] Huncke is being taken care of by Bill Burroughs, who gave a funny reading of a bit of Naked Lunch and a combo on tape of Nova Express cut-up with The Last Words of Dutch Schultz. Bill read at the St. Mark’s Church because his reading which was to have taken place at the Le Metro was canceled. [. . .] Huncke is also getting money from a Canadian magazine for a short story and he is also going to go on the David Susskind Show about drugs and addicts for which he will get $150 bucks. John Wieners read at the East End Theatre and said last night Herbert lost $25 [trying to] score heroin, so it sounds like Herbert has a bit of a habit again. Will try and get in touch with him and tell him to stop taking. Will make sure Carl [Solomon] don’t destroy his writings and will tell [Allen] DeLoach8 to take care of them. I’ll try to read them when I get time. I hope you can stay in Moscow longer, that $17 a day is horror money. Take care, glad to hear from you, love and kisses Peter 8. Allen DeLoach. Buffalo-based poet and editor of Intrepid.

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[ca. April 1965: journal]

April: Shit all over Julius’s underpants, pants on the floor—dried shit around his mouth—not too much—and it smelt like shit in his mouth— though I could not tell for certain—it happened while three girls were in the other room with me talking—there’s a chair where Julius was standing in his small room—and shit on the floor that he had wiped up with a blue dress that a girl had left months ago—at first he denied it was his shit—and when asked about it he replies he doesn’t know—he doesn’t want to talk about it—although he wants to clean it up. [April 10, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg in Moscow]

Dear Allen: Got your last two postcards and one for Huncke, glad you’re keeping in touch. Will get your card to Huncke, who, I understand, has been pushing [dope] to keep his habit. He was on television on the David Susskind [Show], hour-long interview saying he likes junk and he doesn’t think he will ever get off. He could have made more of a pitch for the English system in that hour though he looked fine and spoke gracefully and read a bit of country-hill-tree-tops-night-falling prose. Bill Burroughs has moved to a loft downtown on Centre Street. Harry Fainlight9 was helping him straighten the place up a bit . . . Your Guggenheim came through—ya got $6,000 and LeRoi Jones, too. Had to go to court last Wednesday, the Buildings Department is taking our old landlord as a slum landlord. He is trying to deny he owns the building, still haven’t got our month’s security we paid him and the relocation bread hasn’t come through, but have been on the phone with the relocation department and next week expect some action. [. . .] I miss ya my love, take care—shall I write where you are now?—send me your next address so we can keep in touch. I sent that letter to Moscow weeks ago, so I am surprised you got it so late. Want to get this out to post office before it closes this warm April week— Love and kisses Peter [May 13, 1965: journal]

Here I go again, jerking off twice since twelve o’clock and now it’s 2 AM. Can’t sleep and have to be up by 8:45 AM—just as I was coming the second time the phone rang—Ed Sanders says “I just saw your brother 9. Harry Fainlight (1935–1982). British poet associated with the Beats.

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on 12th and Avenue B—is he lost?” I say, “No, he’s been out of the house for the last week and half like that”—he’s an old Times Square hand, watching the people go by, digging the scene—he doesn’t seem to like me—he’s just confused, and lonely, maybe looking for a girl—he’s been in the house too much for the last two months. I was thinking of Stella’s sister,10 a seventeen-year-old beauty in a Boston high school who arrived at my place one hour before Stella did—to stay for the week—on Easter vacation from Berkeley University—there was an hour in which to seduce her, but I got embarrassed, shy, like a fool and so no pussy ensued—and so now I’ve jerked off to her about fifteen times this past month—I must of come sixty times jerking off to another under panties I almost saw sitting on my chair and as I lay on Julius’s bed in my red bikini—I really do need a girl. [June 2, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Allen Ginsberg in London]

Dear Allen: Just slept with Bill [Burroughs] last night—he’s doing fine. Bill’s APO 33 is about to come out published by Ed Sanders—[. . .] Jack’s [Kerouac] daughter is getting married to Paul?11—in a few weeks. Hope everything is all right with your love life. Ted [Wilentz] is getting married to Joan Steen invite party. Julius has been gone all night maybe he got a job or in a girl’s arms?—your father wrote me asking for info on your Prague scene—Ed says if you want we can picket/petition UN Czech office to ask for your book back12—OK? Love and kisses Peter [June 20, 1965: journal]

Sunday 1 AM: just jerked off thinking of that damn lesbian fat ass hip bellied chick—Marsha—the place was raided—amphetamine heads took Allen’s typewriter and my harmonium—they left my German Rapidograph pens in my desk drawer, so they could of been artists— The Fugs13 are going to sing at Town Hall in August—I wonder how many “clean” words they can sing? Saturday robbed—Allen’s Olivetti and my Benares harmonium. Three movies yesterday with Julius. 10. Stella Levy. Peter had been dating Stella, who worked at City Lights in San Francisco. 11. Jan Kerouac (1952–1996). Jack Kerouac’s daughter. 12. When Ginsberg was deported from Czechoslovakia, the secret police confiscated his notebooks and he spent several years trying to get them back. 13. The Fugs. A popular and irreverent music group that included poets Ed Sanders, Tuli Kupferberg, and Ken Weaver.

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[July 3, 1965: journal]

Dream: Sitting on the street with Manjula dressed in her sari and a girl friend with her—she was living nearby—she gave me her address—a whole group of Indian girls are sitting about on the roof across the street, some looking at us—others talking about being or studying in a big city like New York—me, Allen, and Bill Burroughs were in an apartment and I was saying to Bill that I need some blood for examination—Bill and I are in the bathroom—so he takes a razor and begins playing—he’s to slice a thin piece off a tiny dirty scab, but he starts making believe he’s going to cut his ear off—we tell him not to act that way. [July 10, 1965: journal] I wants to be a toilet yogi poet I am on the practice with Indian dhoti— I wants my bathroom clean I am working with baby oil or mineral oil I wants to keep it clean and go green with my in between Me and hot and cold water It’s my toilet bowl I want to get back to it I wants to grow stainless skin So I can work twenty-four hours a day I wants a leper’s cry—

*** My mother thinks I buried her other son now ain’t that a bit chilly Mrs. Orlovsky— You really do surprise me— I wants to pick some glass on the street up so I can walk barefoot on a hard plastic rubber of Japan style— I am getting it down to a science,

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washing my shoes after I jerk a hop off the city’s street dirty mop. [September 2, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Allen Ginsberg in Vancouver]

Dear Allen: [. . .] No, I didn’t get to see the Beatles sing, all sold out except for twelve buck tickets. No such luck busy preparing a manuscript, fuck it, maybe I’ll do it myself in a couple of years. Am thinking of going to Big Sur in couple of days to hear Ali Akbar Khan’s fingers, Charlie Plymell14 may come. Peter Warshall15 was here a few days, said he was going to pick tomatoes somewhere down the valley coast—so I might go with Julius and do that too and see what it’s like. Otherwise I’m just jerking off twenty times a week, wine and movies. Also got Gary’s [Snyder] car oil changed and greased—though while it was parked in San Francisco one day somebody must of hit the rear left fender, three dents here and there. [. . .] Julius is alright, but I lost my temper with him yesterday for shitting in his pants and spreading it to under his armpits—he’s got another small rose intestine coming out of his asshole I saw—that was a baldheaded Kali in the Help movie if you saw it. Feel ya up later, love and flower kisses Peter [September 8, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Malay Roy Choudhury]

Yes, Allen is here in San Francisco for a couple of months—he just bought a Volkswagen camper and is traveling with Gary Snyder and his girl friend [Martene Algiers] climbing mountains in Seattle, Washington—he won’t be in San Francisco until 20th of September and wants to stay here till October 15th when he’s been invited to speak at Berkeley University teach in on Viet Nam. He doesn’t know whether he should get arrested or not. So will give him your letter when he gets back. [. . .] Glad to hear you’re putting out his poem—Allen was invited to read his poetry and teach out here at the Berkeley Poetry Conference. [September 10, 1965: letter from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Gregory Corso]

Dear Gregory: [. . .] Julius is with me and still not functioning or talking—will cop some LSD for him that might do some thing—wake him up—Showed 14. Charles Plymell (b. 1935). Poet and author of Apocalypse Rose. 15. Peter Warshall (b. 1940). Activist and ecologist.

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Julius and Peter Orlovsky with Robbie Robertson and Bob Dylan in City Lights Bookstore, ca. December 1965, San Francisco. Photo Courtesy of Larry Keenan.

your post card about impeaching [Lyndon] Johnson to Lawrence Ferlinghetti—he couldn’t read your handwriting and some words I can’t make out either—went down to Big Sur, Hot Springs, with Charlie Plymell to hear Indian sarod player Ali Akbar Khan. So after October 15, if we don’t decide to get arrested in demonstration we plan to drive slowly back to New York City. Living in Berkeley with that girl you met in New York City, Stella Levy, when you came down from Buffalo—Kirby Doyle16 was invited to teach there part time but would rather write than that. I’ve been drinking too much wine— not that much—but some, so I guess it means I’m not too enthusiastic about doing something. [. . .] I was in a cheap Oakland movie house and saw previews of a ProAmerican in Viet Nam movie going to play this Saturday. So they are starting to put that shit on the market—Viet Nam—war—what to do like you ask Allen?—I don’t know—flood White House with mail? [. . .] Ed Sanders and his Fugs singing group are flying out here for Berkeley Oct. 15th [demonstration]—The organizers here are trying to get Jean Paul Sartre to come from France to speak on Viet Nam, but they are not sure he will come—Hope you are not too involved with junk and keeping your body in beautiful penguin shape. It seems like the only thing to do is go to jail for couple of years and make a big voice in some protest one way—if planned right might do something—on a big enough scale—Philip Whalen’s method is too passive—surrounding ammunition 16. Kirby Doyle (1932–2003). Poet and author of The Collected Poems.

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stockpiles is all right—Irving [Rosenthal] is going to see President Johnson in Washington D.C. on August 7th, like A. J. Muste17 and his group, but doesn’t seem to work—So what is left?—bug and enlighten the business money profiteers who profit from war?—it’s an interesting problem to think on even though time is running out. Love and war and kissing flowers Peter—

1966 [May 13, 1966: journal] I’m a standing on Fifth Avenue and 47th Street in front of Korvettes leaning against our white Volkswagen camper The radio is on and Julius sits up front with his hand finger thirteen year mental hospital mudra finger touch— she said it’s a wig to her four shopping cohorts and all the eyes coming out the front main entrance just like the two nuns that walked by—it’s sometimes one of their companions that appoints herself to point out or tell or remark or laugh and remark and point—it’s a joke— That’s me—a joke—a fleeting one—living on Fifth Avenue— This busy Saturday of 4:30 PM Spring chilly coats Me—I’ve been waiting a half hour—Allen pops up with yellow bills and says he bought $130 worth of equipment. $80 phonograph and $30 FM radio for me. He says it will take five minutes more to get the check okayed— I pat him as he goes— 17. A. J. Muste (1885–1967). Political activist.

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And now it’s the 16th, another new Monday and I standing in front of Korvettes went up there on the seventh floor— the radio was defective so we exchanged it for a smaller one, plainer less expensive— and two more nuns pass by only they are in blue outfits and they see me—but they look European and take me more seriously with open eyes perhaps their first time on Fifth Avenue and me and Fifth Avenue is all too much for them to register—but they stop their eye-gazing and talk as they passed me by— Allen comes out— winds down the window and goes to the back to put the radio in.

* * * Editor’s Note: By default and without planning, Peter Orlovsky became Allen’s personal secretary and social planner. It wasn’t something that Peter resisted at first, for he, like everyone in Ginsberg’s circle, was swept up in Allen’s activities. It left Peter with little time, energy, or opportunity to pursue his own interests. The following household note from Peter to Allen is included not because it shows any creativity or literary qualities, but because it shows by example a typical day in Peter’s life. [June 8–10, 1966: note from Peter Orlovsky in San Francisco to Allen Ginsberg]

June 8th 5 PM 1. Dick Barnett—please give him a call in Washington / concerning Institute of Policy Studies— 2. Shep Sherbell—wants you to be on a committee for East Side Review and if you have any ideas???—

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3. Barry Gauzer—I gave him L.S.D. Program pamphlet—and told him your message about Dodd Committee, you testifying. He said he would call Washington reporter and they would do notice on it for newspaper before and/or during testifying— 4. Ed Sanders said can’t make Albert Hall but can in July 5th or so— 5. Young kid called—heard you were going to San Francisco. wanted to know if he could ride with you. 6. Eugene [Brooks, Allen’s brother] will call Saturday morning—Problem is three directors of Foundation [Committee on Poetry] have to meet—if only for five minutes and do some more signing— June 10 7. Call from Dr. Ed Hornick and Helen Kaplan—met at Psychiatric Hospital. Dr. Jerome Levine National Institute of Mental Health near Bethesda, Maryland. Tell him Dr. Jarvis suggested suburb of Washington. He is in charge of L.S.D. in the country. 8. Bernard Tannenbaum—would like to see you Monday evening to go over your statement and wants list of say ten or fifteen questions that you feel you would like to answer or be asked at hearing and he would like to go over this list with you for “evaluation” or because he’s your friend and he does this for all his friends, so he will call you Sunday (if he is not home) or you call him at home— 9. That photographer and chick writer doing free lance for Look story on Fugs came by—she, Nancy, asking questions about Fugs and importance and etc.—They would like to see you but I told them you are busy right now. 10. Irving Rosenthal says Dave Haselwood will be in town Saturday night at Irving’s—

* * * Editor’s Note: By the mid-1960s, Peter’s problems were near the breaking point. His sometimes precarious mental condition was exacerbated by an increasing use of drugs and alcohol, and more and more he felt overburdened by duties and responsibilities. Many people from this period remember Peter with a rag in hand, mopping the pavement in front of his apartment in an amphetamine-fueled frenzy that lasted for hours on end. The following note, neither poetry nor prose, is characteristic of the state of his mind at the time. It is based on that strange New York City phenomenon, alternate side of the street parking, where for three hours each day, parking is prohibited on one side of the street or the other. This causes a period when a solid line of double-parked

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cars lines the streets. Failure to move your car at the appointed time leads to a ticket, and obviously Peter had received several tickets and went to traffic court to try to have his fines reduced. [August 11, 1966: journal] Monday Wednesday and Friday. No Parking from 11 AM to 2 PM Cause I gots to be clean on my left hand side And that can stay dirty till Tuesday Thursday and Saturday and on Sunday it’s all dirty buildup because ya need a rest from the home cleanup dirt up and we can’t overlook the fact that some streets don’t get the clean ream job Saturday and Sunday but on Monday You little dirty bun gum chum lum ton tin yellow mellow fellow Truckey trickey saney taney dopo-t-mint. And so dear lovers of the peace I got my fifteen dollar second-hand cabbages Tickitey-tackitey five times or more and so I hush on, rush on, subway scream to where the Tombs18 doth grow a nervous glow, a hoeing in my stomach Thank you kind judge for the ten dollar reduction cure I can see you know I’m an honorable discharged army incurred diagnosed constipated schizophrenic paranoid eyeglassed severe chronic with slight impairment in social and industrial adaptability

With only a 113 dollar a month tin can hand out—the army had me for eight months and then the artists took over my clover and for two years before all this I gave half and half milk support working [to support] my mother, brother and sis and now I [have] to give constant supervision to Julie-Wooly [Julius], home with me at last from thirteen years bug house confinement keyless, not yet on welfare. So on my second alternate [side] parking ticket I was going to plead guilty with the explanation for total dismissal of the fine citing fixed poverty and that I would be glad to clean up the area of the curb and street around and under borrowed cars—at the 9 AM traffic court—Told to stand up, the judge’s name said, but I couldn’t hear his last name, so when I appeared before this yellow white stained mustached man, with Kafka confidence, my hands by my tail backbone, I blurt out, “Your Honorable Judge Richard, er what’s your last name? I couldn’t hear it when the court barrister announced it when you entered.” I only got as far as Richard and he leaped up from his chair as if he had 18. The Tombs. The New York City jail near the traffic court building.

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sat on a sharp pencil and now looking like a weird baboon about to jump from the bench/tree down and said, “How dare you call me by my first name!” accusing me of wanting favoritism. On the next ticket I tried to explain to what looked like a more relaxed looking judge, that the ticket was given at 5:55 PM and given five minutes more it all would have been legal and that there’s an over supply of cars and an under supply of parking space, it’s a city problem. [. . .] But so far that appears to be lost in paper piles.

1967 Editor’s Note: As the sixties wore on, Peter wrote less and less. Except for a brief period during 1974–1975, both his journal entries and his correspondence became much more sporadic. His creative writing was focused on song lyrics, which he sang whenever Ginsberg pressed him into appearing on stage with him. Ginsberg spent most of 1967 on the road. He attended the first Human Be-In in San Francisco on January 14, which was billed as “A Gathering of the Tribes.” That was followed by an extended reading tour up and down the West Coast. Peter traveled with him part of the time, but in July Allen went to Europe alone and stayed through November. In his absence Orlovsky continued his heavy use of drugs, quickly eating up all his money. After arriving in Europe, Ginsberg received letters from Barbara Rubin and Irving Rosenthal, who each told him that Peter had a serious methedrine habit. On one occasion Peter had hallucinated that their apartment was on fire and proceeded to break most of the windows and destroy their furniture. Allen called to check up, but Peter managed to convince Allen that the situation was being exaggerated by their friends and that he was okay. Because Ginsberg was eager to believe that things were under control, he did not return home, but in the back of his mind he knew it was true. He asked Rosenthal to remove all his manuscripts and journals from the apartment for safekeeping. At Peter’s urging he sent money to repair the damage done to the apartment, but that money was also spent for more drugs. The only writing that Peter did during this period were letters he wrote to Allen asking for more money. [August 14, 1967: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in London]

Dear Allen: Sorry not writing before—having too much fun—only problem is $—I guess I’ll have to get a job: cleaning dishes. Julius drove the Volkswagen—I had lent the Volkswagen to Nick for newspaper delivery—Julius

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fibbed and said I gave him permission—although Nick knows Julius has no driver’s license—Julius went off to Queens looking for an old pal and got into a minor accident—[. . .] So the car has to be fixed and what I thought would cost $20 or $40 came to $144.00—I borrowed $59 from Robert Frank and $45 from Gregory—and so thinking the car was all fixed I go off to New Jersey to pick up the tambura19 only to get there with the 4th gear inoperative—so I take it back to the service department [. . .] the service advisor says transmission or something else—will come to $250.00. Then I get a letter from our Volkswagen insurance company saying “sorry to tell you but [comprehensive and collision coverage] will be cancelled.” [. . .] Love and licks Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: This letter was followed by similar requests, each listing various expenses and each one asking Allen to send more money. Peter reassured Allen that he would be getting a dishwashing job soon. When the money arrived it was used to support Peter’s drug habit, as was the money Peter got from selling items out of the apartment, such as the television he mentions in the following letter. [August 24, 1967: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Europe]

Dear Allen: [. . .] It best you travel on—I gots homework and Julius to look after—so no need for you to come back unless you get import secret business—so have a ball—[. . .] Herbert Huncke read last night at St. Marks—Neal [Cassady] went. You can write me to give to him but he may leave for Boston in four days. Neal in town—stayed with me at our place for four or five days, then moved down to Leroy Street—[there is a] television there as ours disappeared one recent night. He says not interested in England, Europe trip—but Mexico instead. [. . .] Love, Peter

* * * 19. Tambura. An Indian stringed musical instrument, somewhat resembling a lute.

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Editor’s Note: After additional reports from friends, Allen wrote to Peter suggesting that either Allen return to New York or Peter join him in Italy, ideas that Peter rejected immediately. It is interesting to note the closing line of the following letter, because now it has become Peter who is thinking about building a rocket ship to escape from earth, a statement similar to Lafcadio’s crazy fantasies of ten years earlier. [October 4, 1967: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Allen Ginsberg in Italy]

Dear Allen: No Allen, I don’t think it best right now to join ya in Milan—too much here to do—I want to get a job and save up money to travel around in India, Pakistan and Afghanistan and Persia and Turkey, studying music, Yoga and grow some food like on the outskirts of Benares. Beside I was thinking that you can maybe put off your Communist country trip and let the money pile up and then we can make a more comprehensive and extensive stay. An elderly man on phone here yesterday asked where you were and I said Rome and then I asked his name and he said Jones and I asked what’s it you [want] to write to him about? and he said he wants to kill you—so maybe you [are] better off spending your last poetry royalties abroad because when you pop back into the U.S. you might get killed dead. Anyway, I have to get a job, still haven’t done anything about it yet. State unemployment or private agency. That’s how I got the San Francisco ambulance attendant job and driver. Yes, I would love to drive you around to poetry readings anytime. It’s not that I don’t dig making it with you—it just seems that there are many young boys and men around, all over the globe, so there’s no sense limiting your hots to just one hot. And sometimes I am a bit lazy, sleepy, creepy, and don’t want to wake up. Carl Solomon sent in new manuscript to City Lights, second Mishaps Perhaps—Philip Lamantia has come out in the City Lights Poet Pocket series and so has Bob Kaufman. You want me to send them to you or say when you’re coming back? Is it still January or before? or is this silly question? [. . .] I guess it [is] best for me to swim to Pakistan or Iran or Iraq or Afghanistan or India and marry a nomad singer in her tribe—and have ten children and start building a rocket Columbus ship of food for simple earth—plenty of time, I’ll live for 594 years now. Love Peter

* * *

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Editor’s Note: When Allen arrived home in mid-November, Peter was not there. In order to avoid facing Allen, Peter had decided to drive Irving Rosenthal to California, an unnecessary trip by most accounts. Back in New York, Allen had already discovered that the electricity and telephone had been disconnected in addition to the trashing of the apartment. Their friends told Allen stories about Peter’s erratic behavior and Ginsberg became disheartened. He wrote to Peter asking him to come home and stop taking methedrine. He told him that he wanted to continue living with him but didn’t want to live with meth. “Things are so chaotic outside the house I need calm in house,” he pleaded. But Peter drove back to the city alone in record time fueled by what he referred to as “white lightening,” which he shot into his veins.

1968 [February 12, 1968: journal]

Peter got a poem in the kitchen. Forgot it by the time I nibble at some buckwheat, trip to Allen’s bedside, light a cigarette and find the typewriter doesn’t work and get a note book out. Back to the kitchen and work—think till it comes back—off I go in panties and the tub running— I’ll bet that’s why I forgot to turn the water off—I don’t remember and maybe—yes—cooked the buckwheat in pressure cooker too much and the steam carried away lots of the flavor that I wanted to go into my tummy first—yes—just like a woman me with food in my belly—I wants to give new birth to food—I know it sounds funnier, but I feel very shitty—and have been since I first remember—then I don’t remember that far being born—out in the lovely cold 5 AM morning to move the car so I don’t get a ticket $25 in my t-shirt and tongs.

* * * Editor’s Note: Their friend the underground filmmaker Barbara Rubin was obsessed with the idea that Ginsberg should buy a farm so that Orlovsky could use it as a retreat from drugs. She believed that a “back to nature” commune would be the perfect place to wean Peter and other poets like Corso and Huncke away from drugs. She convinced Allen that by being out of the urban environment, they would not have access to hard drugs. The idea appealed to Peter, who had always felt that a farmer’s life was the noblest possible occupation and he was eager to do it. Rubin found a broken down unsustainable farm in upstate New York, near the tiny village of Cherry Valley, and Allen purchased it in 1968. Gradually Peter relocated to Cherry Valley, and for several years

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he and Allen tried to establish an agrarian homestead there. In spite of Allen’s best intentions, the farm never was drug free, so the primary goal of breaking Peter’s drug addiction was not realized. In the following letter Peter tells his family about the farm idea for the first time. [February 15, 1968: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate and Marie and Lafcadio: This is Peter to say [I] am becoming a farmer and so looking for lovely growing land to do some growing and more growing on. So come this Sunday, Julius, Barbara [Rubin], and another young daughter of Shirley Clarke and her dashing young husband will drive in their station wagon land looking. So I hope the day will soon grow Peter to help grow on some sad lonely land that needs rehabilitation. Hey, Kate, sorry not to have written sooner, but I am so happy to become a farmer again. Allen is on a poetry reading tour and will furnish the 1 or $2,000. Have to get back to the farm. So long you lovely cookie eaters. Bye bye till farm growing time. Love Peter [February 15, 1968: poem] The heal of my foot is sick Over the last four years has split and cracked and triple tracked So now at thirty-four I must learn a clean oil patience otherwise known in the Volkswagen Repair shop as preventative maintenance.

* * * Editor’s Note: Due to America’s involvement in the Vietnam War, Peter and Allen were thinking a great deal about the policies of the government. Allen decided to join the War Tax Resisters League and stop paying tax money to the government since it would be used to fund the war. For his part, Peter grew to believe that it was hypocritical to take money from the Veterans Administration and then actively protest against the same government. In mid-February 1968 he drafted a letter asking that the VA discontinue his benefits check. The VA continued to send him checks, so it isn’t certain if Orlovsky posted this letter or not.

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The farm near Cherry Valley, NY. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

[February 15, 1968: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York to Veterans Administration]

My dear friendly veteran advisor: I am sorry to say, and I should of said it long before, I have lied in a very dummy dummy way that I don’t deserve my veterans checks. So please, I simply ask of you one last task—make sure I receive no more VA checks as I don’t deserve them and really have done nothing [more] for this country than take more what don’t belong to me and never should [have], so I will try and hoe a mile and smile and smile and try to help the loving earth grow and sing happy morning glow. I plan to become a farmer again and help [the] soil that needs more work or leaves or whatever the sad soil wants to continue to be on the grow. So really I been robbing my army when I lied to the last two psychiatrists that laid their eyes on me. So I am trying to say more and more clearly what I really have done. Thank ya again. Peter A. Orlovsky

* * * Editor’s Note: Eventually Barbara Rubin found a secluded farm a few miles outside of Cherry Valley, New York. Allen bought the nearly one hundred acre property and Peter, along with a group of friends, set about making the place habitable. Peter now had a place where he could bring his brothers Julius and Lafcadio, both of whom had been repeatedly institutionalized.

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[July 27, 1968: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: It was so lovely to hear your voice on the telephone this afternoon. I was surprised to hear Oleg out in Northport with you also. So you have to come up to Cherry Valley to this lovely farm here, the land is all over the fields, the farm even runs into a valley with a stream or brook running thru the lower end table of farm land. [November 3, 1968: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate, Marie, and Lafcadio and Oleg and Nick too if they be visiting you: Sorry not of written much before, but as I’m learning all over again to be a farmer I’d rather see this piece of paper growing as a flower in the earth—so I got a lot of growing to do. Come spring, planning to plant fruit orchard. Too bad mangoes don’t grow here, but maybe someday. All is well, me and Julie [Julius] chopping and hauling dead trees from our fifteen-acre forest in the yellow four-wheel drive Jeep. We got a wood shed next the house here that has to get packed high for the winter though we just got big five hundred gallon tank of liquid gas. So we are still in process of fixing up this farm here, also have to put in gutter pipes and we may get a windmill too, giving us gravity fed water on the hill above the house.

1969 Editor’s Note: Although his previous note indicates that he and Julius were doing well on the farm, the truth seems to be that Julius was completely at Peter’s mercy and was treated as his personal whipping boy. No one felt they should intervene between the brothers, but Peter’s continuing substance abuse and mental problems made his actions more and more erratic. Allen reported that Peter could often be found roaming the farm mooing like a cow or running naked through the woods. In November, after dropping Lawrence Ferlinghetti off at the Albany Airport, Peter had an accident as he left the parking lot. Allen, Julius, and Gordon Ball20 were with him at the time. Both cars were seriously damaged, and Allen suffered a fractured hip and four cracked ribs. 20. Gordon Ball (b. 1944) was living on the farm and acting as the farm manager. Later he would edit several of Ginsberg’s books.

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With the purchase of the Cherry Valley farm a new routine was established. Peter worked the farm along with an ever-changing assortment of helpers, usually poets who thought it would be fun to live on a farm. Allen supported the endeavor financially through a nonstop schedule of poetry readings. Their initial goal was to make the farm self-sufficient, but it always took more money than they could ever hope to earn through harvesting crops. During the long, cold winters, Peter sometimes accompanied Ginsberg on these reading tours. Allen had begun to set Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience to music, and Peter’s talents as a musician became helpful. [February 9, 1969: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Minneapolis to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: Me and Allen in twin cities of Minneapolis, Minnesota—around maybe where you were born—three foot old snow on ground—we’re in big fancy $16 a day room [at the Sheraton-Ritz]—Allen is on tour reading his poetry and we sing together William Blake songs Allen has made melodies to. All is well except the sad ugly war of Viet Nam still goes on most unnecessarily—we off next from here to San Francisco for couple of days. Allen has reading in Stockton [California] and then to Denver poetry singing reading and then to New York and in a week off, all over for months—so was you born around here old gal? Hello to happy Laff and hard working Marie and careful Oleg and delicate Nick. Love and flowers Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: On the farm that summer, Peter continued to treat Julius as a slave and Allen tried to intercede on Julius’s behalf, which only made Peter more obstinate and hostile. Sometimes Peter would make Julius work long into the evening, forcing everyone else on the farm to delay their evening meal. Julius was wary of all of them and never knew whom to obey. Every so often, Peter tried to quit methedrine cold turkey. His method of kicking was to work as hard as he could for as long as he could, exhausting himself physically to the point where he wouldn’t be able to think about speed. Unfortunately that method only made him more manic and he was never able to give up drugs for very long.

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The Later Years, 1970–2010 1970–1979 Editor’s Note: With the shift from living in the city to life on the farm, Peter Orlovsky had the opportunity to act crazier than ever without provoking neighbors or the authorities. Only the people living with him on the farm witnessed his downward spiral into addiction and madness. Ginsberg was often away, and on most days Peter would stay outdoors alone for long periods tending the crops. He sang as he worked in the fields and composed ditties that he would hum or yodel loudly. On the few occasions when he did write poetry, it was always based on some aspect of nature. When he was in the city he often thought about Cherry Valley, and his poems from this period show an interest in sharing his farm experiences with city friends. Let’s go plant an apple tree Let’s go watch it grow Let’s walk from 10th Street and Avenue C to where I don’t know We need some baby apple trees in our hands right now We need to know where to plant them baby apple trees and how One hundred of us can plant 5,000 apple trees, That’s 50 we plant each And tomorrow we can plant 10,000 in a day and watch them baby apple trees grow on the way.

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[May 26, 1970: poem] How many birds are chattering—and how many families are answering each other before the sun has shown its head—city birds of big tall tall buildings and long streets— maybe their nests are out of the city and they only come in the city to chatter and eye the various odd assembled foods or—is the barn swallow among them? or does he always depart to the outskirts of this big, not so old, city rather young—Very young this funny tall place—all to its very own— I don’t think the red winged blackbird is too close about on Tenth Street and Avenue C It was a real treat seeing him parked on a thin branch of a baby tree and sort of swaying in the East Hill and Mohawk Valley I wonder if he is the same bird exactly perched on top of another baby tree only perched like he was more then just standing but taking advantage of this just passed first spring breezy wind—and his wings were out—both of them—and he looked liked he wanted to fly standing on top of baby twig arm branch of a say twelve foot just growing small tree. But it was—diamond shaped or kite shaped—pure, brighter then neon red in the center of his black smooth wing —perfectly painted—such a red Cézanne would have loved to paint— and there he was doing a standing-flying and the wind was swaying him with both wings full out—I never saw a bird do that trick on mother nature before— It looked real cool and easy joy of aloneness and easy health too!—

breeze

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Standing left to right: Peter Orlovsky, Denise Felieu holding pig, Julius Orlovsky, and Gordon Ball. Seated: Allen Ginsberg, Bonnie Bremser and daughter Georgia, Ray Bremser, and Gregory Corso. Posing in front of the farm’s propane tank, July 1970, Cherry Valley, NY. Photo by Allen DeLoach, Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

* * * Editor’s Note: In 1971 Peter and his girlfriend Denise Felieu1 stayed on the farm well into the winter. In November Peter signed Lafcadio out of the mental hospital for a visit, but it wasn’t to be a relaxing holiday. Lafcadio became upset when Peter forced him to get cleaned up so that Allen could have sex with him. It was something neither Lafcadio nor Allen wanted, but Peter was determined to play the role of tyrant. After Thanksgiving, Peter underwent a hernia operation and while mending had the time to again write a few letters. In this letter he gives advice to his mother on how to live a healthier life, another practice that he would adopt for the rest of his life. Peter himself would never be able to give up smoking, as he recommends his mother should. 1. Denise Felieu. Peter’s girlfriend, later a member of a punk rock group called The Stimulators.

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[December 8, 1971: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Dear Kate: Here I is back on de farm like de ol’ folk at home sitten by de window trying to grab all de sunshine I can gets. All is well. I was in [what is] considered the third best hospital in the U.S. for five days and got a good six inch, forty stitches in all, incision and when I woke up after coming out of operating room, did I hurt. And then I realized all life is delicate just like a flower getting its poor beautiful neck cut. So I is for sure never going to cut no flower again in my whole long life. I’ll bet a million years or a million dollars on that. So just wanted to let you know that my brain is in a very fragile delicate state and what goes for my brains even more for my body. I hope you is tip-top [shape]. Be careful with those varicose veins, are they acting up? Come across now and tell me the truth. You must take a realistic factual approach and not rely only on your own pain opinion because of them veins. So Denise, who sends her love and health, and me will be on de ol’ plantation for the next two or so weeks, but will be coming into the city because I gots to give a reading poetry on the 22nd of December at the Saint Mark’s Church in the Bowery. It’s going to be a Christmas reading and a lot of city poets will read and I’ll be one [of them]. So maybe I’ll pop on over to see you folks around then and bring you some of these jarred string beans and corn and beets and tomatoes, etc. So be seeing ya then. Am writing Oleg right now, so maybe we bring him out with us. I will visit Julius before I come into the city. I spoke with his social service worker who said he is fine and talking quite a bit and is very polite and does a bit of helping with cleaning, sweeping, etc. So I’ll let you know further and I’ll bring him some oatmeal cookies. Eight inches of snow around here. Take care of yourself and try to stop smoking, you have to! It’s really a death invite and wish to die, because [you have] too many problems in the world. And if you stop smoking I’ll give you a real surprise Christmas present that you just can’t imagine. Don’t slip. Love and fresh garden vegetables your farming son Peter [February 12, 1972: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Katherine: [. . .] I am flooded with work here in the city, am taking guitar lessons and will have to find a second teacher so I can learn faster so I can start

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Peter Orlovsky with their pet pig named “Don’t Bite Please,” April 1971, Cherry Valley, NY. Photo Courtesy of the Peter Orlovsky Archive, University of Texas.

writing up my own songs and tunes and melodies and chord changes. I have an acoustic Japanese guitar that cost $200 and has a very full, mellow sound. It’s a left-handed guitar and Denise is helping me. She’s doing fine and taking lessons from two teachers, two different teachers so that she learns more. We have a new pet, a thirteen-year-old Chihuahua, a tiny bit of a dog, farmer in Cherry Valley wanted to gas it and Denise said she didn’t want that to happen, so along with us it came. With love and care it may live another year. I hope by now you have stopped smoking. It really is a drag for the lungs and it is going to take years away from your life, which it probably has done already. All you’re doing is making the jerks who sell cigarettes money. I got a new poem about what was our farm pig [“Don’t Bite Please”] I will send you. Allen is off to Australia for a month. Are you doing any writing? Marie lied to me when I called last month, she said she

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was working in a factory, sitting down part time. But yesterday when I called her she said she was looking for a job. I think she and Lafcadio will end up in the mental hospital and just make sure you don’t lose any sleep over it. It’s about time you started looking after your own life and doing what you find interesting, like writing, and forget about them two jerks. Like the saying goes—no point knocking your head against a brick wall. I guess Marie has still not gone to a dentist, boy has she turned out to be the dumb one. Lafcadio is bad enough, but Marie going lazy and two years now since she got off her ass and worked. Okay for now—Love and Vegetables Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: Orlovsky and Ginsberg had often talked about having a baby, but it was an ongoing and somewhat unrealistic dream considering their lifestyle. Still, they continued to toy with the idea of having a family. Peter was thinking about having a vasectomy at this time but rejected the thought, as evidenced in this poem. [February 22, 1972: poem] Don’t be dumb Peter, why have a vasectomy? Can’t you control your own dick? And even if it were free, though you know it’s not, Aren’t you giving your innards to someone Else to cut your tubes? Can’t you cut your own thoughts faster more intelligenter and healthier than all these divine gifted physicians? All you have to do Peter is tell your inside skull to drop all sex fuck jerk coming cock plunging thoughts by sticking your tongue up at the sky pushing it out all the way—wiggle it around—in short getting more tongue exercise enjoyment wonderment—like it was the beginning of a rope that had all of your insiders innards attached and you were pulling them out to lay them out before you on the ground or on a rock under the sky far away— In short again, try to love with your mind and eyes and use your dick less and less So that the word vasectomy doesn’t exist for you and you have to use that word less and less.

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In short you have placed a vasectomy physician operation operator in your brain or under your skull or inside your skull—to scalpel with your memory eye tool and cut the baby pool.

* * * Editor’s Note: As a devoted organic farmer, Peter also wanted to be a vegetarian. He was not always successful and felt guilty about it, as evidenced by the following journal entry. It presages Ginsberg’s poem on the same theme, called “C’mon Pigs of Western Civilization Eat More Grease,” by more than twenty years. [February 1972: journal]

I ate steak twice, once on 14th Street and Union Square for $1.35 and once at a place up on Broadway at 50th Street and here I was telling some folks I was a vegetarian. I also ate half a fried chicken about six or seven times or ten times from a local Spanish-looking store. Earlier I had a few pastrami sandwiches at Katz’s [delicatessen]. And to top off my hypocrisy, I dove into salami sandwiches. It’s laziness and callousness to the slaughter-house woe on my part. My taste buds yearning for Italian salami—I have to keep telling myself, aloud if need be—that best to cook my own vegetable stew—or Chinese wok fresh fry the spinach—on the farm this summer eat a lot of fresh uncooked straight from the garden vegetables, just like you were a wise rabbit or a healthy deer.

* * * Editor’s Note: Peter’s mental condition had deteriorated to the point where now he was recommending that Kate put her children into institutions. Just a few years before he was continually worried that she would do just this. It is clear that Peter had become angrier and more dissatisfied with his life by this time. [April 15, 1972: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate: All is well, am trying to learn guitar and banjo but I find it hard to concentrate so it’s going slow. [. . .] It is not fair that Marie use [Oleg’s] money for any bills she runs up, because of being too lazy to get off

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her ass and work. This really is the last straw. [. . .] That girl is just lazy and a bit of a mental case just like Lafcadio. She even has the balls to tell me Laff is not a crazy lazy. Has Marie gotten a job yet? I’ll bet not if she’s planning to use up Oleg’s hard earned silver. [. . .] It’s really none of my business, but it does become my business when Oleg tells me where his silver is. I hope you have nothing to do with this scandal and are not involved in any way. You should take my advice and put Laff in the mental hospital where he can have his teeth fixed cause he is not going to have them fixed with you two lazy folks. I have a good mind to call the hospital and have him committed and charge you both with neglect. He is in a malnutritional state of being. You can tell by how skinny he is and it’s not good for his brain function to be underfed. It is best he be placed in an environment where he can get his teeth fixed. For that matter, Marie ought to commit herself and get her teeth fixed also because it’s been ten years or more she has been to a dentist. That, in this day and age, is a sure sign that she needs mental treatment and needs it fast before all her teeth rot and she looks like an old bag at thirty-seven. If I were you I would commit them both and get some peace for yourself while you still have some time on earth left to enjoy life. It’s really sad to see you waste your life on those two who are never going to give you nothing but crazy lazy mixed up problems until they push you into the grave because they are so mentally blind and lazy. Well I don’t care anymore, I got my life to live and I ain’t going to spend any more time on crazy lazys. They belong in an institution where they can best be cared for. Hope all is well. Are you getting food stamps? You should, they are indicated in your situation. Happy May birthday, and hope you stop smoking and drinking coffee. Soon will be going to farm for spring garden planting. Love Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: During the summer Ginsberg had been working with Chögyam Trungpa2 on plans to set up a poetics department at the new Naropa Institute, the first Buddhist college in the country. Peter was usually interested in everything that interested Allen, and Buddhism was no exception. Once Allen committed himself to the project with Trungpa, Peter also began to study and practice Buddhism. That summer, they were still wrapped up in politics and the struggle against the 2. Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche (1939–1987). Buddhist meditation master and head of both Vajradhatu and the Naropa University.

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war in Vietnam. Although Peter spent most of his time on their farm, in late August he, Denise, and Allen flew to Miami to protest the nomination of Richard Nixon at the Republican National Convention. Even in the few letters he wrote to his family, he was completely absorbed by the terrible statistics of the never-ending war. [September 24, 1972: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to Kate Orlovsky]

Hello Kate, Marie, Lafcadio: Got your tiny note. Am here at the farm for a few days, fixing house and garden, poor corn and tomato harvest [was] a surprise harvest in August. Was down in Miami for Republican Convention, got arrested with 1,200 [people trying to] stop Nixon and four more years of bombing poor civilians in South and North Vietnam. In all of World War II, America dropped 2,000,000 tons of bombs, in the Korean War we dropped 1,000,000 tons and in the Indochina War, mainly North and South Vietnam, we dropped 7,000,000 tons, and since this Indochina War is going on more than six and a half million North and South Vietnamese have been killed, wounded, and driven homeless. Eighty percent of the 7,000,000 tons of bombs have fallen on South Vietnam, the country we are supposed to be helping. This Vietnam war costs the United States seven billion dollars a year to run. So I hope you are voting? Are you and Marie? Please let me know, it’s very important we all vote and I hope you vote for McGovern. If he gets in, I think he will put a stop to this insane war. Denise is practicing lots—she’s getting her band together and organized—(they call themselves “The Grape Vine”)—they are going to play at the Washington Square Methodist Church Peace Benefit this Thursday night. I am getting a left-handed banjo made for $150. I’m reading a paperback called Voices from the Plain of Jars. Stories of bombing horror and napalm skin burning from American air war planes bombing Laos day and night for five years and killing thousands upon thousands of simple, poor peasants and rice growers. Play on and sing and so long Peter

1973 Editor’s Note: Early in January, while Peter and Denise were visiting New York City, Allen stayed on the farm with Gregory Corso. Allen was irritated that he had to take care of Peter and Denise’s dogs, and one day when he went out to feed them, he stomped down the porch stairs and slipped on the ice. Corso called an ambulance, and Ginsberg found himself hobbling around on crutches for the next few months with a broken leg.

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[February 10, 1973: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Kate Orlovsky]

Dear Kate, Marie and Laff: Got your letter but I can’t find it right now. I think ya said you’re worried about Oleg. Well don’t, he’s fine. I picked him up the other day because it was very rainy, from his doctor’s office, he was getting a new dressing so I drove him home and he [is] fine, his operation wound should be healing soon. He expressed concern about Marie not working and you phone no more. He can’t understand why she don’t get off her ass and work and make some money and buy a house. I just came back from the farm, Allen got a broken leg, in a cast up to his hip. There are some friends up there now looking after him. Luckily there is not much snow so a car can get right down to the house. He has a new paperback of poetry out called The Fall of America that I will send you. Read it, you will like—makes a lot of sense. In a cast for next two and a half months he will be. Slipped on ice in front of farm house. He had very slippery worn shoes on and it was dark and he was on his way to the barn to check on Mooney dog tied [to see] if it had enough water and as soon as he got out the front door wooom—he slipped very fast. So I am going to the New School [for Social Research], with Denise studying “Learn How To Read Music,” cost $85 for eleven lessons so I got to get studying. I had a guitar teacher—got one good lesson but he disappeared on me. I got to find a good teacher and then I’ll learn. I also got to practice more. I did 400 push-ups on the farm four nights ago, am trying for a 1000 a day and a 1000 deep knee bends for the legs, makes them strong and bouncy and last long. Well, I’ve been making a lot of honey bread, an old Pillsbury recipe with two packets of dried yeast and good old wheat flour, too—the recipe I use makes two loafs, so I bake one and wrap the other for the freezer. [. . .] This the typewriter doesn’t work well. Got to get it fixed. How’s yours doing? I got to get a book of poems together. [. . .] Keep in touch, love Peter [June 29, 1973: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to Allen Ginsberg in London]

Hello Love: Got your postcard—thanks—glad to hear you talking with Robert Lowell3 and Simon [Albury].4 Sorry to hear [that you are] late to rise, 3. Robert Lowell (1917–1977). American Pulitzer Prize–winning poet, author of Lord Weary’s Castle. 4. Simon Albury (b. 1944). BBC broadcaster and television executive.

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late to bed—but get lots of rest or deep sleep (no coffee gives ya deep sleep) for bone mending. OK. Save your come, [when] you get back I’ll give you good suck job—No fair jerking off. [. . .] Take it slow on your leg now. My love to Bill [Burroughs] and health to his pure, clean, clear, air sacks in his two lungs. I have been doing twenty chin-ups on tree limb outside the house every night. Look out for the booze, drink drunk sip liquor glass. It got many a sweet strong turtle native long hair Indian. Poor Jack Kerouac. He be alive now and oh so strong and clear-headed if he took pot instead of sucked alcohol glass. It’s a rainy day today maybe three inches of rain—That’s why I get time to write you. Have hundreds of tent caterpillars—spraying them—called up agricultural extension in Cooperstown—they told me what kind of insecticide to get—a bio-degradable one. Am in far garden planting Hubbard squash, etc. Don’t worry—will get two [cars] removed to dump before you come back in August. Lots to tell you, but I should return to the garden to weed, etc.—Getting fence up for edible pea-pods to climb up—Planted twelve celery plants—they supposed to grow good up around here. —So I now told. Patty Oldenburg5 and Jay Craven6 may drive up in Volkswagen micro bus with Jen this Saturday with maybe John Giorno7 to visit Anne Waldman.8 It will be good to see them. Okay love, keep that dick hot for me—I need a good ramrod man sweet like you. Are you singing to Mick Jagger or singing with him?—Okay sweets. Get your daily exercise in and brush your teeth three times a day to combat receding gums—always right after you eat brush, brush, brush, brush, brush, brush, brush, brush, soft and gentle brush, brush brush, each tooth at a time, brush, brush, brush, brush, please do, please, brush, brush, brush, brush, brush and soon no plaque, brush and brush too and brush and brush two—brush Love and kisses, miss ya and fresh garden vegetables Peter the Farmer

* * * Editor’s Note: With Chögyam Trungpa as his Buddhist meditation teacher, Allen Ginsberg became active within the Shambhala group that Trungpa had founded. Allen began to spend more time with poet Anne Waldman, who had agreed to act as co-director of the Naropa poetry department along with Allen. Before long Peter became involved 5. Patty Mucha Oldenburg (b. 1935). In the sixties she was married to the artist Claes Oldenburg. 6. Jay Craven was Patty Oldenburg’s boyfriend at the time. 7. John Giorno (b. 1936). Poet and creator of the Giorno Poetry Systems and the Dial-APoem poets. 8. Anne Waldman (b. 1945). Poet and co-founder along with Ginsberg of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poets at the Naropa Institute. Author of Fast Speaking Woman.

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Allen Ginsberg and Chögyam Trungpa, 1970s, Boulder, CO. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

with all the activities at Naropa, too. Orlovsky liked Trungpa and saw that Buddhism could add a spiritual element to his life. Unfortunately, his Buddhist practice did not help Peter become more independent, because it was one more thing that he and Allen would share. From this point on, Buddhism held the two together, replacing sex as the common link. In the following letter Peter mentions his participation in his first Buddhist seminar at Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Peter also reports that he is going to help Ginsberg build a cabin next to Gary Snyder’s home in the Sierra Mountains of northern California the following summer. Ginsberg realized that the Cherry Valley farm was a money pit and he hoped to set up a more affordable retreat for himself near Gary. Allen was also beginning to realize that some of Peter’s problems stemmed from his not having anything of his own. Everything in his life, both tangible and intangible, seemed to belong to Allen. Therefore Allen wanted to turn over the ownership of Cherry Valley to Peter as a place for Orlovsky solely. The mountainous property in California couldn’t be used for farming, which had become a major part of Peter’s life. As a result, Peter never used the new cabin, which they called Bedrock Mortar, and Ginsberg, who was becoming increasingly busy elsewhere, seldom visited. [November 30, 1973: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to Don Allen]

Dear Don: Long time no see. [. . .] Hope all is well with you—Come by farm and stop over—lots of fresh garden vegetables—if you’re traveling this

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way and rest your moving bones. Just got $900 45-horse-power farm all-red tractor with two bottom hydraulic plow and I’m getting a planter so I can plant five acres of sweet corn soon. All organic fertilizer. Already have a 20-horse-power tractor with seven-foot cutter bar mowing machine to cut hay and weeds for mulch and compost and humus. Was with Allen for three days in Wyoming Tibetan meditation seminar and sat for ten hours—very good medicine for me. Allen leaves there 6th of December and heads this way. He may go on reading and singing [tour] with Bhagavan Das9 to colleges and universities this spring. Will be seeing you this summer. Plan to help Allen build small house next to Gary Snyder this summer. [. . .] Love and Fresh garden vegetables all year around Peter

* * * Editor’s Note: In mid-March 1974 Peter Orlovsky attended a conference in North Dakota called “City Lights in North Dakota.” It was during this trip that he began to keep a journal once again. This journal illustrates his random and distracted thought pattern, which was still being fueled by drugs, even though he was beginning to meditate more and more. His entries continue through 1975, but then, except for notes written during Buddhist classes and lectures, he lapsed into written silence once more. [March 18, 1974: journal]

When an ex-farming, high school student in Queens wants to go back to the abandoned farm sixty miles west of Albany and work all summer, spring, and fall in the fields cutting fallow weedy fields with a longhand blade and use the pitchfork as a rake and pile it up and then use the cut weeds as a mulch between and around tomato plants—OH—I can never cut enough weeds to use as mulch and to pile up high for compost pile—all the machinery the military has tied up— Why isn’t there apple trees by the millions in New York State?—Why isn’t the fresh apple cider or apple juice running free in the city’s parks?—Why is beer and wine and cigarette butts all you see in New York City streets?—This is the work of Rockefeller10 to sell oil, beer, gasoline, wine, and cigarettes on time! Rockefeller loves pollution and billions of cars in New York City every hour. Rockefeller. I hope Rockefeller 9. Bhagavan Das (b. 1945). Bhakti yogi and teacher and Buddhist friend. 10. Nelson Rockefeller (1908–1979). The governor of New York at the time.

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lives to be 351 and 1/2 years old to see the mass murder and deathly pollution he loves to create! It was Rockefeller that robbed the nickels and dimes from billions of old folks who need to ride the subways to the hospitals—Rockefeller created a half million junkies by refusing to legalize heroin and let the doctors take care of the heroin problem! Buy some land before it disappears— Grow your own food— Don’t smoke—don’t drink beer in cans— Don’t drink wine from stores— Makes body weak—

OH—I almost forgot to tell you—I plan to make five million dollars to grow eighty-five trillion trillion apple apple juice or I’ll write five million poems instead of money—I’ll do anything to grow my first trillion apple juice gulps—like clean a trillion subway toilet bowls and toilet floors. The military won’t let me have any farming tools to start a big multiple fruit orchard. Dear Military General of Bombs: Where are the bulldozers to move the big rocks from old hilly farm fields? Why does the army have so many bulldozers to pull big bombs only? Little Puerto Rican children of the slums in Lower East Side New York City drink very little fresh apple juice in the hot summer coal sulfur sooty air. [. . .] Twenty-five million or more people in America want to go back to the land and grow their own food and start their own heavenly fruit orchards—and bud their own vitamin C rose hip bushes around the garden house and harvest your rose hips for winter family colds—but because the military now in 1974 gets a one hundred billion dollar budget for war study—for growing new smart bombs that cost twenty-five million to develop and each smart bomb costs $13,000 and how many various smart and laser bombs will there be?—for every $13,000 smart bomb means one less tractor to haul apples to the cider press—one $13,000 smart bomb means one less cider press near the orchard—one $13,000 smart bomb means one less glass greenhouse to start tomato seeds or Brussels sprouts—OH, dear Brussels sprouts with no greenhouse to nurse you [. . .] [March 24, 1974: journal] 15,000,000 tons of munitions were dropped on Indochina from 1965 to 1973 That bombed two million bodies to death— That killed two million noses that can’t smell their mango roses—

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That bombed four million lips that can no longer stretch their smile— That killed four million eyes blown up to the sky— That bombed four million hands to no work— That bombed four million feet that can’t carry a hundred pounds rice to the storage bin—That bombed four million thighs— That bombed four million butts that can’t sit under the mango or rubber tree— That bombed four million breasts that can’t feel the joy of joys— That bombed two million tongues that can’t taste the food of growth— That ruined four million ear drums that can’t hear the water buffalo swish its hardworking tail— That killed four million cheeks that can’t smile good-bye anymore— That shattered two million back bones— That bombed twenty million fingers that can’t feel the rice rice sift thru— That bombed twenty million toes that can’t wiggle as they goes [May 16, 1974: journal]

Pain in my upper left breast and pain sort of behind my throat—Here it comes again—now it’s a pulsating pain fifteen seconds and then gone, but still basic sense of pain behind the left breast—almost gone—I better get it checked out—I’d be a fool if I didn’t get the story on this—I vaguely remember asking Beth Israel doctor and he said forget about it.

* * * Editor’s Note: Peter spent the summer in the Sierra Madre mountains, working with a group of Gary Snyder’s friends to build Allen’s cabin. He enjoyed the hard physical labor and often worked completely naked, surprising many of his fellow carpenters. In the evenings, after a long day of work, he would occasionally make entries in his diary. [June 5, 1974: journal]

This hammock is really comfortable—have to get a couple more—“one for Gary (Snyder), one for you (Peter),” says Allen in one thirty-five or forty feet away—I’m on a wooden platform fifteen feet off the ground in an almost perfect circle of Ponderosa pine sixty feet tall—gonna scrape the bark off and leave them in the shade and July 1st they be ready to use as houseporch posts—young Jonathan twenty-five-year-old carpenter is gonna be my boss in building Allen’s house or “Poet’s Hermitage”—going to bed now and hope to awake early 5:30 A.M. and start work and get twenty-eight or so poles in shape for use soon—got to get this part of job done and on to the next—so good night just as full moon starts to rise.

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[July 2, 1974: journal]

Fast jerk-off this morning thinking of Anne Waldman—on the ground, my back is against a fallen tree—progress on Allen’s house working well—cement foundation done and other corner stones set—tomorrow laying kitchen floor slab—it’s getting so I don’t really like coming—cause when ya have to work it’s hard on my lazy body, so it’s best not to come, only I’m too hot—and I can’t go spending time in my head fantasizing fucking—well, it’s lovely to live outside among all these tall Ponderosa pine trees—to constantly look up and see so much greenery and tree trunks and shrubs and bushes and sun and shade, to look to the left and see into the forest and see it get darker and thicker in there—and this is really not dark deep dense Ponderosa forest—went with Gary in his jeep for load of decomposed forty-year-old sawdust from old sawmill—and took walk looking for prince of mushroom Gary says—he found three pounds—I didn’t find one, but I saw some real thick Ponderosa pine trees and it was dense and thick and these old thick five-foot diameter stubs still standing from forty years ago, just a few of them—to let you imagine how virgin and healthy this region must of been before the first cutting, all that tons of sawdust they left behind.

* * * Editor’s Note: Every now and then Peter took a break from the work on Allen’s cabin and went into San Francisco. In July he found himself back at Foster’s Cafeteria, where he had first met Robert LaVigne, twenty years earlier. [July 14, 1974: journal]

Hurry up Peter write it down—sitting in Foster’s Cafeteria, 9:27 P.M., Polk and Sutter, San Francisco, and it’s 1974 and it was 1954 when I used to come here all the time with artist Robert LaVigne and his big big cock up my virgin ass—I first stopped here in 1953 on one of my four or five hour walks on way back to Presidio Letterman Army Hospital Base as army medic [. . .]—stopping by Foster’s and its big glass walled side windows—coming in and getting what? coffee? and sitting and lo and behold, Byron Hunt comes over to my table and asks if he can sit down and talk with me—so we talk an hour or two and then he says “you know I think you might like to see an artist friend of mine name Robert LaVigne”—and he took me up to see him nearby at 1403 Gough Street [. . .] Time to leave Foster’s—11:15 P.M. Almost two hours here and only one cup of tea with lemon and not told to leave—left in peace to read

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and write and look and talk with drunks—or semi-drunks or yearning—sad—I like the word ‘drop’—never drink a drop again—bring the curtain down on drinking—Good-bye Foster’s—ready for walk up Polk to Broadway—walk through tunnel singing—visit Shig [Murao]11 at City Lights Book Store and browse and read some more and head up Grant to listen to guitar picking and singing and go practice myself—the front red neon sign is still here and LaVigne’s painting of Foster’s with Neal [Cassady] sitting with Natalie Jackson, Allen, and Jack [Kerouac] and Gregory [Corso] and me and a few Hotel Wentley painters12—maybe that short round eyeglass Artie Shaw13—[. . .] Well, gotta go—it would be nice to sit here and remember past scenes and details of life over a year just up the block—three and a half blocks away to be exact—sort of San Francisco short blocks [. . .] Here’s where I first learned to smoke Pall Malls from LaVigne and forgot my body health muscle development—from here on my body shrank—smoking and beer and wine and heavy in these last twenty years and here I sit where it sort of began—no tears—but a kind of strength—that I’m interested in chin-ups and do stomach exercises to develop stomach musclery—one-legged deep knee bends—that’s for me—before and after work house building or farming or gardening, if I got the energy—[. . .] Well, I got to go—other things to do—writing about living with LaVigne and going to Junior College for a year and then another year living with Allen—short book—call it—what?—Peter Going To Junior College In 1954 While Living With Painter LaVigne And Allen Poet The Next Year And On—well maybe—just go over the details—of what comes to memory first—good exercise in writing and memory recall.

* * * Editor’s Note: A few weeks later, Peter’s girlfriend, Denise, flew out from New York to visit him at Bedrock Mortar. The following journal entry was the basis for one of Orlovsky’s more popular later poems, “Good Fuck with Denise.” [August 5, 1974: journal]

9:55 P.M.—Good fuck with Denise she laying down—from the rear— pounding in—squashing against her ass, good full long come with cock joint twisting in good throbbing—the feeling inside cock near 11. Shig Murao (1926–1999). The longtime manager of the City Lights Bookstore. 12. Foster’s Cafeteria was located on the ground floor of the Hotel Wentley. 13. Artie Shaw (1910–2004). Jazz clarinetist and bandleader.

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joint good feeling there—8:30 P.M. fucking—a bat squeaking, flying around in dark—working day tomorrow—Have been in San Francisco this past week to pick Denise up at airport—Shig [Murao] drove us in this French Citroen car. Sang three songs in the Coffee Gallery on Thursday night at 12:30 A.M. for fifteen minutes—sang “All Around the Garden”—fifteen million tons of munitions fell—on two million bodies that did not want to die—going out to the garden—tell me what you want me to bring you back.

* * * Editor’s Note: That fall Peter returned to Cherry Valley and worked to get the farm ready for the long winter. [October 3, 1974: journal]

Got to get to bed 11:40 P.M. and New York Times has me up—we’ll see as soon as you get up, Peter, write time in here—got up at 9:30 this morning and this evening saw twenty or so geese flying from North to South—they circled our pond and lo and behold they landed in and swam around—very noisy and talkative—rare sight—not many souls have eyed such a sight—it was getting a bit dark and I was by the garage door chiseling the seven-foot mower bar rivets off to put new knives and pound new rivets in—and the geese low—they fly low because they’re looking for water pond to land in. They do a lot of talking and I’ll bet even more looking with their eyes than we ever dream of, or maybe not—who knows?—I swiftly went and got the one dog near me into the house carrying her and got the two others into house and no one but me, like a fool, walked toward pond, stopped a little more than half way and saw them talking up a sensitive storm of noises—what a shame I didn’t have pen and paper—I could of written a good few pages—the flutter of their wings as they landed and as they did the third circle above my head. They dropped some droppings behind my back like seven spats to the leafy ground—maybe they were nervous about landing or they just took a shit—fifteen seconds later landing in pond water—the feathery flutter of their flapping wings was a new thrill to my ears—a sound produced from so much concentrated singular solid simple definite purpose that it must be music to their ears and adding to the mass of sound—the mass of different sounds—and all of it meaning something to them—my dumb stupidity in wanting to get close—I walked trying to get a better, closer look—the ground was wet and splattered with snow—got to within twenty feet of the pond and I knew they would fly—I knew it—and they did—just what I didn’t want to

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happen—It really shows how fucking dumb I am—I perceived the most when I stood still and looked at them—when I got too close it was all gone and it was very bad manners on my part—Here was a rare opportunity to see wildlife—it was too dark to use binoculars—and I was just getting a feeling for their sound—I thought if I could get closer I could see how they use their sound to work things out—chased them away by being too greedy. I could just see me, if I had children, six-year olds, telling them of the twenty-five wild big wavy arms of the talking geese. [October 6, 1974: journal]

10 P.M. Bill Burroughs and James Grauerholz14 and John Giorno came up visit from 11:30 A.M. to 3 P.M. and noon breakfast—big omelet and baked bread by Rosalie and six eggs and butter Pam and Charlie Plymell brought—Bill tried fishing at noon or 1 P.M. and only one tiny sunny—they wanted to get back so left at 3 instead of 4 P.M.—called Ed [Urich]15 to meet Bill—got up at 8:10 A.M. this morning—mowed hay from 4 to 6 P.M.—and will do all day tomorrow, too. [October 23, 1974: journal]

Just got Julius from Binghamton State Mental Hospital this 11:45 P.M.—He goes to bed at 8:30 P.M. and gets up at 5:30 A.M. there.—He got one of his front teeth pulled out—He still smokes—They give him mellaril—100 milligrams each pill—three pills a day—His belly is ballooned out—he says he tries to keep it in—He’s a bit talkative—says he jerks off once a month when I asked him—He’s going to help me gather leaves—made six trips so far—two with Denise—four by myself and now see how much with Julius we get done—I hope to get all the leaves at the dump—a good ten wagon loads—maybe more. [November 16, 1974: journal]

Saturday 8:07 P.M.—Julius and me got two loads of leaves—wet matted beginning to decompose black—well, got maybe 20,000 pounds of leaves from dump with Julius, picking it up with hands into cardboard boxes dumping it into side walled wagons—cut field below Walter’s—maybe three acres raked and we got two loads of hay and two loads left—mowed by Ed’s house—one and a half acres and have to rake it and use it to cover asparagus—which should of been covered already—have to take 61 Oldsmobile to dump and strip what I can use off it—car radio—two rear snow studded tires—front left wheel—generator and regulator—what 14. James Grauerholz (b. 1953). Editor, secretary, and companion to William S. Burroughs. 15. Ed Urich. Farmer who lived near Ginsberg’s Cherry Valley farm.

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else?—made some oatmeal cookies—came out good first batch, but something wrong with second batch, added too much baking soda?— Allen here—he gave me good blow job and he screws me strong—good to have him back in bed with me—I love it when he reads—brings things to bed—He read me Auden’s last book of poems—and God, so many words I didn’t know what they mean, but Allen does—he’s lucky to have such a good vocabulary—how does he do it? Oh the City is waste It was built in haste All that good shit goes to waste Down the drain pipes Never to return again As fertilizer for the men To grow good food again [January 1, 1975: poems] SCRAMBLED LEAVES POEM There’s our small country dump with 10,000 lbs. of township leaves about to be bulldozed under so with help of Julius and Denise we use ten cardboard boxes and borrowed hay wagon to remove them back to the farm and in the spring have to layer cake the leaves—one foot of leaves—ten feet long and ten feet wide—sprinkle water, sprinkle lime and organic starter and inch of earth and some black decomposing earth and then another foot of leaves until there’s an eight foot high compost pile or so. LOVE OH LOVE OH CARELESS LOVE— Leaves Oh Leaves Oh Fallen Leaves— Leaves Oh Compost Leaves—Oh Compost Leaves.

*** What a dirty lie COCA COLA is the Real thing when apple juice is thousand times better—there was whole month didn’t buy any soda and it felt good. How come I always forget and buy industrial drink? Took some good acid and worked outside in four inches of snow from 1 to 8 PM in 28 degrees temp— Got a lot of work done—good for concentrating

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on getting one job done at a time—and then began eating old things in icebox and then remembered who needs icebox cold weather now—Have been using cold water for last two or three years—maybe four years. Cold water for washing hair and body—very good for the body—makes the skin thicker, stronger and more rubberish like and the cold water rinse gives a body high that only cold water can give— The only thing is sometimes I wait almost seven days because I’m too chicken to wash outside in November cold evening air—it’s not good for the skin to go dirty around thighs and you don’t get good sleep— only way is to think using cold water is going to help me live ten years longer than if I didn’t wash all year with it—it’s like medicine—natural medicine—gives you something to think about—most of time after fucking it’s cold water dick ducking.

* * * Editor’s Note: During the winter Peter and Denise were having problems with their relationship, and as Peter mentions here, Denise was not as dedicated to farm life as he was. At the same time, wanting a safer and larger apartment in New York City, he and Allen had found one on East 12th Street near Avenue A, and Peter was busy getting it ready for their move. Ginsberg remained in that apartment for the next twenty years. [February 19, 1975: journal]

Have to have farm girlfriend—fellow worker—a strong pussy who likes to grow food—vegetables and fruit now that Denise doesn’t come up to the farm summers any more—yes—I need a strong farm working girlfriend—I sure do—It’s sad for me to be up at the farm all spring from late April to almost beginning of December without a fellow gal working with me—So I have to ask around and find a new farm girl. [I need an] acoustical guitar girlfriend instead of rock and roll hard loud sound girlfriend—I’m going to start looking for another girlfriend— Denise is all city and doesn’t really care about the farm any more and

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I do—so having realized this—I need a girlfriend who likes farm work in spring summer and fall and city in winter—who plays folk blues country music guitar—a sweet mama who loves to grow tall tall green golden ears of corn so sweet and tender and sing a sweet song to the red hot tomatoes. Fixing up another apartment to move into four and a half blocks away—painting latex white semi-gloss. Drinking too much coffee—now 2 A.M. and have been working all day and still can’t conk out—maybe it’s also feeling sad about breaking up with Denise—yet it would be great to be free again and do a lot of fucking around.

* * * Editor’s Note: For years Lawrence Ferlinghetti had been trying to persuade Peter to put together a collection of his poetry for a City Lights book. In the following note, Peter toyed with various titles for the book, which eventually was published in November 1978 as Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs. In the end, Ginsberg had to hire poet Ted Berrigan16 to help with the final selection and editing of the book since Peter was in such bad shape that he could not concentrate on the project. [March 2, 1975: journal]

1:35 A.M.—call my first book of poems Clean Ass Hole Poems or Clean Ass Hole and Other Vegetable Poems or Clean Ass Hole Poems and Other Vegetable Poems or Clean Ass Hole Poems and Other Vegetable Songs or Clean Ass Hole Poems and Vegetable Smile Songs or Clean Ass Hole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs or Clean Ass Hole Poems and Songs of Smiling Vegetables or Clean Ass Hole Poems and Songs of Vegetable Smiles— [March 30, 1975: journal]

Dream—Last night or night before dreamt Nick in fur coat was suddenly walking in front toward me and as soon as he got close I grabbed him around the waist and drew him to me and I was surprised at how fast I grabbed him, really friendly like—and showed him—pointing to my house or where I was living and there was Denise with cooking apron standing over a cooking gas stove—and Nick was glad inside himself to see me and Denise in happy home life and I was glad to see him come around. 16. Ted Berrigan (1934–1983). Poet and author of The Sonnets.

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Cover of Peter Orlovsky’s book, Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs, published by City Lights Books, 1978. Courtesy of City Lights Books.

[April 20, 1975: poem] There’s a raspberry under your chin There’s a raspberry behind your ear There’s a raspberry in each hole of your nose There’s a raspberry resting on the mouth of your precious asshole There’s a raspberry about to roll off your eyelash hairs There’s a raspberry capping your nipples There’s a raspberry resting on your ten fingernails There’s a raspberry licking your balls There’s a raspberry always under your tongue There’s an even larger raspberry over the tip of your cock hard-on head There’s raspberries in our speech, hidden but there—I see them and feel sweet [April 21, 1975: journal]

12th Street Desk: Hello dear stranger—I was thinking today—I was wondering if I should write a poem saying I suck your cock all day long for a $1,000—This forty-one-year-old almost, Peter Orlovsky, who needs $$$$$$$ to start a fruit and vegetable farm—so all you hidden rich gays and come into sexy fresh Peter mouth or ass or armpit—I suck dick like a sweet trick—I suck cock like a clock—For a $1,000 I lick ass like a major pass—For $1,000 I suck your balls in my halls—For $1,000 (with which I could buy a greenhouse) I’ll dance and be your sweet mama fairy on L.S.D. swishing hairy—I do any old sweet fucking

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thing for a $1,000 farm tool or machinery—All I want to do is grow fruit and vegetables and give it away free in the streets of poor slums neighbor—with a message to each like—Don’t smoke gives you cancer and wastes your money—Don’t drink beer in aluminum cans because fruit juice is better for you and don’t make you sloppy minded. [. . .] Meanwhile, Peter, start reading fruit farming orchard growing New York State book and learn how to plant and grow, care and harvest apples and apple juice and apple tarts too, maybe—go to sleep tonight and dream orchards glowing with sun fruit protected by brilliant rainbow of dew—I shot mescaline into my vein and told Allen, Gregory, and Henri Michaux. Unfortunately it was a scary high in that Paris hotel room, crawling under the bed covers, crunching against the bed wall—It would be great to be a New York City street sweeper in my neighborhood—get to clean the gutter—between carbon monoxide parked cars—I would be a good street gutter sweeper. [July 2, 1975: journal]

Colorful Tibetan Dream: In a room with five or seven Tibetans in red robes—moment of illumination—now really tell what’s on your mind—I’ve become a Buddhist monk—and I’m testing the other monks out—there’s a round stone pot that I have to sit on and when I get it balanced I lose all anger—the monks are very nervous and then we all [become] quiet like snow was falling on us—we all turn white—that was on our minds.

* * * Editor’s Note: At Ginsberg’s urging, Peter taught poetry classes at the Naropa Institute from time to time. The little writing that he did was often in conjunction with class activities. Unfortunately since many of the classes centered on the summer writing programs, there was less and less time for Peter to spend at the Cherry Valley farm. [August 20, 1975: postcard from Peter Orlovsky in Boulder, CO, to Julius Orlovsky]

Dear Julius: Here in Boulder, Colorado, teaching poetry and giving poetry readings. It’s a university town. We took car ride up into Rocky Mountains and stood on Continental Divide which is two and a half hour drive in car from Boulder. Will be up at farm September 6th, so see you around then for another month on farm and visit folks. Brush teeth. Love Peter

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[August 20, 1975: poem] Don’t Buy Beer, Buy Healthy Poetry Poets who buy beer, don’t buy poetry Poets who buy cigs, don’t buy poetry Because they smoke the money up, instead of poetry I never buy beer, wine, cigs, anymore. I buy Catullus instead. My last four years have been using Cold water only winter and summer And this is my fifth year body shower tub Cold water better for my skin Hot water boils my skin away Or my hand calluses flake off And maybe cold water body wash And cold water hands wash may Help me to live extra ten years On the cold planet. I drank insane quantity of wine In my moron thirties So I no want a drop again. Raspberry juice poetry. What can ya do—grow some apple trees fast Peter Eater.

* * * Editor’s Note: In the fall of 1975 Bob Dylan asked Ginsberg and Orlovsky to travel with him on his Rolling Thunder Revue as it toured New England. Both Peter and Allen had been setting their poetry to music, and the trip gave them a chance to see a great musician in action. Denise went along, but Peter continued to question the wisdom of his monogamous relationship with her. [October 29, 1975: journal]

Watched music practice for fourteen hours today—3 A.M.—alone in hotel room—Denise gone to someone else’s room, Dylan maybe, to ball probably—Great, now I can get some other pussy and lick some new sweet cunt—oh, what a happy surprise life—for six years she said not to make it with no one else and that she wouldn’t too—and secretly I wanted to make it with others—and now she’s found a handful of

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other guitar cocks or roadies all of a sudden—well, it’s great—I’ll be like Allen a bit and have many loves—I’m not tied down to one girl anymore—I can fall in love more—fall in love for a night or a weekend or a month or a year—or ten hours or five hours or eight hours—Ah, she came back at 4 A.M. and said she was only playing Roger’s twelvestring guitar. [November 2, 1975: journal]

Losing a touch of weight—have been taking orange juice and fruit to lead into fast—hope today to start full day of no food—I think I’m okay stomach-wise to start—have to get luggage from about twenty-five people from their rooms and bring it to bus and help pack it on bus—off to Newport, Rhode Island, with Rolling Thunder Review—been with them for six days now—and it’s great—it’s going on for another month—saw three performances and today another—10:30 A.M. better sit for an hour now—took fast dip in ocean. [November 3, 1975: journal]

In Sheraton Hotel in Newport—12:27 A.M.—washed yellow pants— making up song about washing pants with cold water—how good it is—another form of meditation—if done with cold water—more natural and easy on hand skin, good for hand skin—and then my socks—got to really fast—just two pounds of yeast and then just water and keep this up for at least two weeks—but should do longer—very good for stomach—I’m so happy can start to see my stomach muscles shine through—can do left and right abdominal contortions and separations and movements that couldn’t do before. [November 20, 1975: journal]

Thursday 5:40 A.M.—Can’t believe I’ve got a girlfriend that has become a stranger to me—I’m so glad I’ve realized me and Denise have less and less in common—time for another girlfriend—I need a different girlfriend—Denise has her own life—whenever we play together—she’s into heavy rock and roll and that’s fine—great for her, but for me, it leaves me alone—it’s amazing how it’s taken me all this time to realize what I want with a girlfriend—for three summers, or is it four or five, I’ve been alone at the farm jerking off like a dumb dog—while I helped support her in heavy rock and roll—we never sing songs hardly—she don’t sing much at all—it’s all lead guitar or loud chords—I thought I’d pay for her lessons and she’d teach me—but—over the years of doing this the end result is that she claims I’m lazy in learning and don’t practice enough—maybe so, but I’m beginning to see now that she

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wasn’t all that interested in playing together—she said she was—but it was just wishful talk. [January 16, 1976: journal]

5:30 P.M. Lafcadio still in bed—six years in this apartment in Huntington living in his pajamas—me and mama can tell him a thousand times and he still lays in living room bed—bending over to kiss him, he smells like rotten butter or—he don’t like to wash. Kate talking: Breech born—she was in hospital a month and a half before I [was] born and a month and a half after I [was] born because she had no food for four months—she was living at First Avenue and 26th Street—across from Bellevue [Hospital]. Kate brushing Lafcadio’s teeth—she stands over him as he sits on bed—he leans his head back as she puts her hand on his forehead—Me and Laff will sleep together—“What did you do, fuck Julius up the ass”? mama asks me. [March 15, 1976: journal]

March 15th—Coming off Preludin 25 mg—five a day for last what?—two weeks or three weeks or one month—only supposed to take three a day—I lost my belly—but I worry maybe more—and pull my eye brows out—Allen told me to stop taking them—Okay—I’ll stop—3 A.M. he gets up out of bed after I kissed him goodnight and turned out his light and closed door—did ten one-legged deep knee bends in kitchen and started to mop the floor—he came into kitchen and asked, “Are you taking any diet pills?”—“Yes”—“Oh no, don’t you understand they’re making a wreck out of you—How many do you have left?”—“Four. I’ll give them to Denise and I won’t take any more.”—I sent Joe $15 money order last week for another prescription and I’ll call him up tomorrow and tell him to cancel it. [1976: poem] I kinda would like to hold Christ’s hand Like I saw that girl do at the museum. Then I would lead him down to the soda fountain And order Christ a strawberry soda cream And take him back to that painting, So he could think of that soda for centuries to come.

* * *

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Editor’s Note: During the final thirty years of his life Peter had fewer and fewer lucid days. For a while he toured with Ginsberg, but his use of drugs and alcohol fueled his increasingly crazy activities to the point where even Allen knew it was time to separate. Buddhism was the one thing that they still shared, and for a while they attended retreats together and taught classes at Naropa. Gradually Peter met other women and withdrew to the privacy of his own apartment next door to Allen’s, eventually winding up in halfway houses, clinics, and mental institutions. His writing became ever more sporadic, incoherent, and scatological in nature. These final entries are collected from an assortment of notebooks, letters, and miscellaneous papers that were left behind after his death. [1977: prose/poem] Fertilizer Blues

Put big juicy sweet raspberries in your dreams Peter, a big one-hand wooden carrying bucket filled full of those sweet nipples, picked early dear quite calm morning. Decorate the borders of seventy-five acre farm with a good raspberry producing variety. Take care of each bush, mulch it with best food, prune the old stalks and in five years how many onehand wooden buckets will you be picking? Is that a one gallon wooden bucket or two gallon wooden bucket? Well, I don’t know, if it’s two gallons, the first raspberries picked on the bottom might be squashed to death and that might be alright if it’s used for jam. Dear Raspberries made into jam, winter toast jam, are you so sweet in your nippled treat that [neither] sugar nor honey needs to be mixed in to sweeten you up? I’m gonna sing a song to my raspberry bushes and tell them their sweet red finger tips are as sweet as the growing sun. I’m gonna sing them a song all day long and tell them their red eyes are so sweet. That every berry is a little red sun come down to earth for me to look at closer. Millions of little red sweet suns surrounding the farm. How lucky I am to become a farmer, for the last eight years I’ve been hanging my ass low to the ground. I’ve been lazy too, letting the two hundred and fifty strawberry plants that Denise and Rose transplanted go to weeds and now there’s no more strawberries in the strawberry patch. I should hit myself over the head with a thin wooden stick for being so lazy. I went walking over the patch and there, lo and behold, was a strawberry growing tall as a weed, no strawberry red fruit but long strawberry stem and huge strawberry leaves trying to grow as tall as the knee high grass-weeds.

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How lucky I am to be a New York City farmer—every time I come from the country into the city, in late fall just about when the first snow falls, I sit back and think—poor New York City, it doesn’t recycle its shit and piss—there’s so much human manure dropped, just like chicken droppings—no one collects New York City’s manure and it’s all wasted and not turned into fertilizer—it’s sad, like never seeing a thousand bowls of free fresh raspberries on the corner of 12th Street and Avenue A. Poor New York City—even simple cows don’t throw away their shit, but let it drop near their many eating spots and next year it grows into better green grass than before—It’s true, it’s true—for decades New York City has been saying I don’t give a shit and that’s what it means—no one in the dear city gives a shit, so that all of, let’s say, the most intelligent Columbia students’ shits go to waste and—it’s sad—on the farm I take my breaks to take a piss on the compost pile and there’s where it does good, and if there is some way of only getting all the city piss collected for me to bring it out to the farms and start feeding the soils upstate. I would be willing to work free on this recycling New York City human wastes in return for a couple big loads of recycled shit and piss. Then I could take up where Chaplin left off—oh, for the life of a city shitter, that’s the life for me.

* * * Editor’s Note: The following section of this entry was converted into Orlovsky’s poem “America, Give a Shit!” and included as the final poem in his first and only book, Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs. You have to sit and think this thing out Peter—for example, how much how many pounds does a cityite shit and then how many pounds does everyone give in piss and figure that on a daily basis and then find out how many are doing this every day and that should give you an amount in pounds—where do I go to scoop it all up and how is that done?—collected?—I remember me and Allen went walking—was it four years ago?—to the East River and about 17th Street, we saw the sewage tunnel emptying into the East River—there floating too, was the soggy toilet paper—I’ll have to go back there again and refresh my memory if it’s not blocked off and the tunnel covered up so that you can’t see it enter into the East River. No wonder city farmers don’t like to bring free food vegetables, green or raspberry red fruit into the city, because they don’t get no shit and piss manure in return. Boy, this is a big problem and my brain’s starting to go soupy trying to figure out the next step—but the next step is finding out where the final

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sewage tunnels end and try to figure how recycling and transporting is done—sounds like a very exciting job and after it’s done how many hundred pound bags would New York City give a month—or just blow it into a truck and not bother bagging it—can it be dehydrated so as to make transportation less a problem or would it be simpler to suck it out of the sewers into trucks that go straight to country curing station? Then if the farmer brought some free food into the city, he could then go to the country curing station and pick up some cured human fertilizer that is organic all the way. Ever since that young kid in North Dakota at the poetry reading who said he lived on a farm commune, long hair and beard, said he always goes to piss on top of the compost pile. Then there’s all the paper garbage thrown out every day with broken glass bottles, cans and plastic—There’s so much organic paper thrown out and collected everyday that it’s enough to drive a compost farmer silly dilly. [December 20, 1977: journal] She is twenty-eight and said I was the first to stick my tongue in her ass. I said my—how lucky can I be. It sure feels good— I better do it again real fast and slow— Boy—you got a good ass A bit soft I think Yeah—but it’s a good ass— and I wanted to make it with her a year and a half ago and jerked off to her quite a few times— and thought of her while fucking Denise— Boy, girls can be fun to lick— I must have an endless stick. [January 27, 1978: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Bob Dylan]

Dear Bob: Saw your movie [Renaldo and Clara] twice at Waverley Theatre [. . .] and you have no idea how breathlessly great your movie is, nor have you had a rare glimpse of how the packed theatre was bursting with applause from their hands and mouths at the sight of you singing “Tangled Up in Blue” or “One More Cup of Coffee for the Road” or just the fast disappearing sight of you and Allen at Kerouac’s grave stone. Just the sight of you both looking at Kerouac’s stone [made] the audience fly into appreciation with their clapping winged hands and the audience’s enthusiasm burst again and again throughout the four short hours, so

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much so I was astounded and glad for you, for not only streaming out your songs, but [for] flooding the seated theatre brains and eyes with your personal private intimate calm aloneness years, flowing love arm embraces and the all so rare glimpse of you with your finger tips guitar on your lap. This is a film that happy bodies will see again and again, as Allen said, because it becomes better clearer and makes intimate sense each time seen. How intelligently honest you come through to the audience, you have no idea, and how can you, you weren’t there seated with January 25th Waverley Theatre seekers or the other showings in New York City. Someone should of taped the audience’s perceptions of appreciations to play back to you. The young people I asked during intermission, in the john, etc., all loved it from many different ways. And the sad thing of it all is you don’t know how great your film is to see and hear. Allen said to write you a short note of audience’s reactions. [August 7, 1979: poem] Peter’s Teaching Poem If your feet smell, wash em. The more clean you go to bed, the less you have to clean your sheets. That’s what I do all the time—lick the plate clean. You can talk in the subway, even if it is making a lot of noise. Depends on what you’re talking about. Have you tried meditation? You know you can get free meditation here. A clean asshole is important. What have you got in mind? Why give yourself more grief than you already got? Take it easy. You’re better off planting string beans. Throw it out and start all over. It’s a fuckin LIE! You DIDN’T go into the forest! A chunk of twenty pine trees . . . .

*** NAROPA Q.—Quickly say what Naropa is. Well, it’s a big school it’s about eighty-five million people

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about twenty-five trillion apples eighty-five quadrillion nut trees and eighty-five million persimmons to eat all day long that’s all we do is eat persimmons all day long eat a lotta nuts and fruit and raspberries . . . we sleep on ’em and eat ’em we eat ’em and have dishes made of raspberries and walls and doors all the tools are made of raspberries shoes are made of raspberries17

1980–2010 [May 17, 1980: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Cherry Valley, NY, to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate the Gate and Marie and of course that ancient wise slow turtle love Lafcadio: All is working well—all my fault, Julie wrote you weeks ago and I was to add you a note but I didn’t, so we are thinking of you always. Anyway Happy May 15th Birthday you’re seventy-one, right?—good gal—can’t keep a good woman down—up and at em—slow and steady— It’s rhubarb time, and the stalks are deep crimson red which means, [as it] says in one of the thick gardening books, the stalks are loaded with trace minerals—plan to make some rhubarb juice with honey and jar rhubarb juice. [. . .] Soon, maybe tomorrow, Julie and I start digging holes in far field orchard for American butternut trees we will plant. Met ninety-oneyear-old Indian WWI conscientious objector who lives in Cherry Valley and is a retired nursery man. [He] told me he planted Carpathian walnut trees and they don’t grow because they are not native to this local area. He suggested from his experience only American butternut and hickory, and blueberries—so we will plant some more blueberries, too. Have three-foot high ones growing. We also getting cow manure from our nearby dairy farmer friends. [. . .] We made five rhubarb pies yesterday—My girl friend, Beverly Isis, is flying in on the 26th May—will pick her up at the Utica Airport—so maybe the three of us—Julie, Bev, and me come visit you around 28th or 29th—I’ll figure out and let you know—Will try to see Nick, too—haven’t seen him in almost a year or so—She is a good vegetarian, used to work in restaurant kitchens—she has a job now in San Francisco Buddhist 17. Transcribed from a taped lecture by Jerry Gilbert.

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bookstore where Allen and I hosted a party with San Francisco poets and Buddhists, etc. [. . .] Love—Tickles and flower juice to you three [Peter] Gave a poetry reading in Woodstock, May 3rd with Ed Sanders—went okay—Julius came with me—added a P.S. to my “Mother’s Memory Poem”—saying that you never would say a thing like that and I made it up out of silly thin air—is that OK?—I’m trying to make my mother happy every minute of the day—okay?

* * * Editor’s Note: The postscript to the previous letter was added after his mother complained about a poem Peter wrote in which he said that his mother had sucked his penis when he was a baby. She was angry that he would say such a thing and Peter apologized, but he did not stop reading the poem during his performances. [January 1, 1981: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate, Marie, and Laffey me boy: I’m at a New Year’s party with a bunch of our old friends; Allen, Lucien Carr and his black wife Sheila, who’s a photographer and drives taxi, Bill Burroughs who retired to his loft bed here at 222 Bowery and John Giorno, a Buddhist poet artist who invented Dial-A-Poem over the phone that you may of heard about in the sixties, where one could dial a phone number and hear a poem with different poems each week. And Herbert Huncke is here too, with his new book of short stories that I told him I would send you, but he said not to because it would shock you too much. He says he agrees with you about writing only the good uplifting things in life—his book of short stories has tales about Laff when he was living in the city. [. . .] He’s looking good, lost some weight and is writing again and he’s living in Brooklyn with Louie Cartwright, who’s also a photographer and works in a delicatessen. Beverly Isis, my future wife, I think, is coming up from Washington to my apartment at 11 AM tomorrow for three-day visit. [November 6, 1981: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate, Marie and Laff, Flew in from Boulder on October 24 to help Oleg who had chest pains and now stomach problems, taking him to doctor, getting medi-

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cine for him, errands, etc. Allen read me your postcard about Laff’s November 10 operation at Brookhaven Memorial Hospital. Please have Marie call me Sunday morning or at noontime to give me more info, name and phone number of Laff’s doctor and time of operation. Have to take Oleg to his doctor Monday morning November 9. I have rented a car for November 10 to visit you. See you then with ham and fresh bagels. All is well— Love Peter [February 23, 1982: poem] Any Haig who thinks of starting a Vietnam Type War in El Salvador will be cooked in the Heart Attack Soup Pot tomorrow morning at 6 A.M. So says my Mont Blanc Pen.

* * * Editor’s Note: Orlovsky gave few interviews in his later years. This is a rare answer to questions written to him from a student, but it gives some clues to how he thought about his work as a poet. [March 12, 1982: letter from Peter Orlovsky in New York City to Kathy Streckfus]

Dear Kathy Streckfus: Thank you for your letter and reading my poems. I’ll try to answer your questions as they come in your letter: 1: Shock to reader etc.?—Yes and No—[I] don’t want to hurt anybody. Gentleness is best for now—it goes a long way, as my guru Chögyam Trungpa has said many times. 2: Spelling—wrong? Because I used to be too lazy to bother with dictionary—Sorry about that—also at moment of writing wouldn’t want to waste time fingering the dictionary—more interested in writing down what’s going through my mind—or head—will make sure future poems are spelt correct as my guru says it shows respect for the English language, etc. 3: No, “Morris” just happened to be a young kid. 4: Could louse up my senses—but that’s why I got a Buddhist

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Tibetan guru and meditate samatha and read the Dharma to make sure I don’t go to either extremes of joy or down—read Meditation in Action by Chögyam Trungpa, published by Shambhala, 1969—you can get it in your nearby book stores—and his Myth of Freedom and Cutting Thru Spiritual Materialism. Basically samatha meditation gives me balance. I used to go through—you name it—all kinds of unnecessary depression and woe—not now—thanks to common sense of Buddha’s teachings. 5: I’m not going to make myself vulnerable to danger unless I can handle it and transform it into sanity. [June 6, 1982: poem] TORNADO TYPEWRITER TOMATOES visiting Typewriter Burroughs Lawrence Yodeling in the $60,000 airplane flying toward Lawrence from Kansas City Allen’s eyes glued out the front right side window The Kansas farms spread like movie farms Allen’s head becomes one big eyeball this June 6, 1982 @ 11:05 am “Ya ever have an accident?” Allen asks the young pilot sitting next to him as he brings the plane down to a living room smooth rug landing At 7 pm in Wayne’s backyard chicken barbeque party Allen standing by the garden fence sees and hears the long freight train go by with three army tanks on board

* * * Editor’s Note: In November 1982 Peter’s father, Oleg, passed away and his body was cremated. Peter took his ashes to Colorado to scatter in the mountains the following year. Peter’s letters are much briefer now and often apologetic as he careens from one mad crisis to another. [March 18, 1983: letter from Peter Orlovsky to Allen Ginsberg]

Dear Allen: Sorry sweetie! Beginning to glimpse a bunch of my mistakes. I’ll try to discipline myself better, and not cause you so much upsetness. It comes from not doing my Buddhist practice, even not meditating an hour a day—Please forgive me. Love Peter Orlovsky

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[June 9, 1983: letter from Peter Orlovsky in Boulder, CO, to the Orlovsky family]

Dear Kate, Marie, and Laff: Got your letters—thanks for writing—between classes now—all is fine—Allen’s been in New York City for last week—he flies to Virginia for two day literary conference—then to Boulder—Yes, I got Oleg’s can of ashes with me here in the next room—which is our shrine room— where we meditate and do our Buddhist practices in Hinayana, Mahayana, and Vajrayana studies in learning to calm, relax—look at our mind—while sitting for an hour at least or more. I was going to spread them up at R.M.D.C. (Rocky Mountain Dharma Center—sixty miles west of Boulder). [January 13, 1984: poem] Wishing to Be a Better Friend Knowing Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac for a good thirteen years brings many fortune cookies of good luck and wise Buddha-like thoughts. Jack was very good at sitting and reading over a book, a very special book Named “A Buddhist Bible” (Edited by Dwight Goddard). When meeting Jack a day after he read A Buddhist Bible it would be like walking into a stone wall or it would be like meeting a very sad sad person or it would be like meeting Mr. Death a little bit which is a lot because being very young and not fortunate to have even a shred or glimpse of who or what Buddha was or said or did or when. Jack and Neal would be alive today if they were students of meditation of Guru Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche. Jack would of loved Chögyam’s perfect black combed hair. Neal would of loved Chögyam’s stillness and patience. Both would of loved to practice meditation called Samatha in Sanskrit which was invented by Lord Buddha himself 2,500 years ago. The powers of Buddha are great and gentleness he practiced with great skill. Jack and Neal in lots of ways were very gentle people. Jack loved Haiku by Issa, “the moon smiles kindly on the flower thief”. The Diamond Sutra was one of Jack’s favorite readings together with The Surangama Sutra. Walking with Jack alone on the streets of San Francisco near the Asia House, were interesting moments because Jack’s mind was filled with thoughts. The main one then being birth, old age, sickness, and death. The sufferings that countless humans go through

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And that everything is an illusion anyway or to begin with. Jack’s blooming sense of everything is illusion, he would of made a great teacher at Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado where his work and writing companion intimate friend Allen Ginsberg taught world poetry very diligently for last ten years. Very interesting it would be for a new Buddha to be born in modern Japan. Jack had good eyes, he lived to look, look at everything and Neal too.

Editor’s Note: As time went by it became more and more difficult to coax Orlovsky into writing anything, and one of the few things that worked was to coauthor poems with him. In the following poem, the lines in bold type are by Ginsberg. [January 22, 1985: poem by Orlovsky and Ginsberg] Sun falls Night always comes Stars ring Cold is interesting. Peter’s drunk just a little giving away farm, tractor, rotary tiller— everything but the bottle. Air is blue Teas are green Kris is red— Everything works— No more knife guilt No more apartment terror Take your pictures with conscienceless camera Head is loveable Teeth is clean Where is God— Hello to all—!!! Death’s OK When you’re not a lush Art is better, So says Shawatu. All the trees love you— When sky is always ripe melons ready full earth!!!!

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3 AM, cold wind on 12th Street What became of old healthy loves? Did they drown in wine? Did they get drunk on Fame? Picture the trees They can’t crawl Eyes sing all night Bugs play—people work—!! The people put their heads on pillows Nobody answers the phone mail lies unopened— in the morning do Tai Chi

* * * Editor’s Note: In the mid-1980s Orlovsky met a young Naropa student named Juanita Lieberman. She became a steady girlfriend whom Peter mentions for the first time in this short poem. [January 31, 1985: poem] The Sun is Juanita— The tree is Juanita— The clean floor is more than Juanita— Kisses Fill the Eyes— [July 1986: poem] White sky over 12th Street the air is blue— four eyes sparkle— Drunk again— No rain yet— Issa says hello to new pigeons! The kitchen floor is dirty my turn to clean it— Keeping the sky— open the oven door again. A tear is not a river— two tears not a stream three tears feel good four tears is honest even if you don’t like it.

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[July 14, 1986: poem] Don’t cry, tears feed cockroaches and clean the floor and wash the sheets. Even the clouds now don’t or you try! Pass the moon under the floor all the world turns to its face. [January 26, 1989: poem] TV Baby Pete When asked what do 1,000,000 doctors say when asked if they were stranded mountain climbing on highest peak in the world what headache relief would they take if the head ache was so so painful? They all chorused Bayer aspirin, but Doctor Pete said half a cup of home made pee so hot from his pluming pipes of the coolest mountain snow lion’s juice that explosion took place and screamed the big exam and the long exam and the hot exam Wow so sang P.O. in bed Bedroom atop bed Yum Yum

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* * * Editor’s Note: Writing by Peter Orlovsky during his final years is virtually nonexistent, and what little remains is largely incoherent. In the mid-1980s he and Ginsberg had stopped traveling together, even though Allen could never quite face the fact that Peter needed professional treatment. Sometimes their arguments became violent, and in 1989 Ginsberg was granted a court order of protection against Peter. The few psychiatrists that Peter saw had little effect on him, and Ginsberg continued to bail him out of trouble and pay for his room and board. In 1990 Peter’s mother died, leaving his siblings scattered in several state institutions. Occasionally Peter tried to visit them, but over time he lost touch with them due to his own unstable mental condition. In 1992 after one of many trips to hospital psychiatric wards, Peter was released to a halfway house. He moved out of the apartment adjoining Ginsberg’s and lived on his own until 1996, when Allen bought a new apartment. He encouraged Peter to move back into their old apartment, which was under rent control and therefore very inexpensive by New York City standards. Living again in unsupervised conditions led Peter back to his old habits of drug and alcohol abuse. Even though he had a social case worker who visited him a few times a week, it was inadequate support considering the severity of Peter’s problems. [January 29, 1994: journal]

Just saw Mahoney, woman doctor, who wanted to see me in one of the numerous offices psychiatrists have here—we’re going to give you such and such a dose of Advil three times a day to calm you down, because people have seen you acting too manic in the morning. Meet Dr. Alguss this morning at 10 AM in her office: If she’s good, I’ll be out of here February 1st and get to my poetry reading February 4th at 10:30 PM at Saint Mark’s Church in the Parrish Hall with a young lady poetess I don’t know—but maybe have seen around—Have Alzheimer’s disease, so not sure of anything—keep dancing on Pete to Milarepa!!!!

* * * The grass is blue The apples are blue The oranges are blue Sky is all blue

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[January 30, 1994: journal] When all the hospitals ate all the hospitals All the hospitals were free !!!! When all the fish ate the ocean The ocean was free— So says Peter the Eater in Bellevue Psychiatric Holding Pen Rooms, Jan 30, 1994 5:55 PM. Dressed in hospital blue. [February 1994: journal]

A family story Peter’s father, Oleg, loved to tell: Oleg, a captain in the Czar’s Imperial Army, stole the third fastest horse in all of Russia, [named] Shylock, (or was given or took or asked for or was given or presented) and said goodbye to that horse on a hill with tears in his eyes on a rowboat to the last ship boat leaving Russia in the war between Whites and the Reds to Constantinople, Turkey. As the boat pulled up to the ship those on board said, “No, you can’t get on, one more person and the ship will sink.” Pete’s father whips out his pistol and yells or just says calmly, “If I don’t go six or ten of you won’t go, too.” Then twenty hands lifted Oleg on board. Oleg’s father was a brigadier major in charge of some accounting office and spent the remaining years defending himself against Bolshevik attack of stealing money from lawyer’s fees. Got Your Hot Cooken Don’t Beat me baby I’m insane and triple crazy My head’s a golden daisy Get hot and throw your wagon on me. Raw green peppers are tasty Fresh carrots are moony Apple butter is lazy Don’t forget to dig up your grapes In the air sticks are hanging I got one planted here Don’t you think you could tickle My apple pickle covered with hair One love is a pickle Two loves is a lickle Three loves is a trickle Four loves meet everywhere

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* * * Editor’s Note: At the end of March 1997 Allen Ginsberg was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer. Allen had never fully realized the enormity of Peter’s problems and now, with his own death imminent, he couldn’t focus on Peter. He only remembered how gently Peter had cared for his own family, and he asked Peter to move back in with him to care for him during his last days. Ginsberg died less than a week later without ever realizing how impossible it would have been for Orlovsky to take care of him.

Robert Frank and Peter Orlovsky in Ginsberg’s loft. This picture was the last photograph taken by Ginsberg a day before his death in April 1997. Photo Courtesy of Allen Ginsberg Trust.

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Peter Orlovsky on the porch of his home, Fall 2008, St. Johnsbury, VT. Photograph by Gordon Ball. Copyright Gordon Ball.

Without Allen to depend on, Peter spiraled downward until finally the court awarded his custody to Judy and Charles Lief, two fellow Buddhist practitioners. They found a house for Peter in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, and hired a support staff to care for him. There he finally found respite from his demons in his final years. In increasingly poor health, he was no longer able to farm or travel and passed away in Vermont on May 30, 2010.

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[LAST POEM] Feet dance for money Feet dance for life Feet dance for blues Dear Peter kiss these feet goodbye Like a fool, Uncle Pete shot too much coke and now no money left— Not to mention no brains left and now eat shit for the rest of my short life Can’t even stop smoking ain’t it a joke No lungs left Oxygen bottle—How stupid can one get? Is this a royal Doha18 on an ant hill? Or dullness from shooting coke Go to hell coke, eat shit coke Cigarette smoking has led to everything else bad and now can’t even stand up straight Back aches and tooth aches Too much coffee and no sleep, who wants sleep anyway? Just like an Elephant, sleeping standing up— That’s the trick— Only want one trick in life, to sleep standing up!!!! That’s what an American monk does Don’t ever take coke— pure poison— a downer, a drag— pure waste of time.

18. Doha. A Hindi poem with a rhyming couplet.

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e

Index “Aether” (Ginsberg), 116, 118 Akbar Khan, Ali, 186, 190, 226–227 Albury, Simon, 249 Algiers, Martene, 226 Al-Khal, Yusuf, 162 Allen, Don, 159, 251–252 American Express (Corso), 126 Ansen, Alan, 64, 66–67, 147, 151 Aronowitz, Al, 119, 211

250, 258, 272, 274; Naked Lunch (book), 55, 58, 62–63, 71, 219, 222

Baldwin, James, 203 Balf, 91 Ball, Gordon, 238, 242, 282 Bang, Carol, 197 Baraka, Amiri. See Jones, LeRoi Beck, Julian, 96n24, 212 Bellamy, Richard, 101n35 Berrigan, Ted, 261 Bittleson, Stella, 139 Black Mountain Review, 85 Blackburn, Paul, 211, 212 Bomb (Corso), 99 Bowles, Jane, 58–60, 144n21 Bowles, Paul, 142n19, 144, 150 Bremser, Bonnie, 211, 242 Bremser, Ray, 105, 211, 242 Brooks, Eugene, 45, 51, 176, 179, 201, 230 Buddhism, 47, 49, 146, 176, 181–182, 189, 205, 247, 250–252, 263, 267, 273–275, 282 Burroughs, William S., 47, 53–56, 58–63, 71, 73, 83–84, 88, 92, 95–99, 102, 109, 121–122, 124, 126, 128, 130–131, 136, 140–144, 146, 149–151, 177, 219, 222–225,

Carr, Cessa, 26n22 Carr, Lucien, 26, 272 Carr, Sheila, 272 Carroll, Paul, 105 Cassady, Carolyn, 35n33, 37, 46n46, 99–101 Cassady, Neal, 12n12, 35, 37, 42–47, 61, 90–91, 99–103, 111, 210, 233, 256, 275 Castro, Fidel, 134, 143, 165 Cayce, Edgar, 35, 45–47 Céline, Louis-Ferdinand, 45, 192–193 Charters, Ann, 39 Chicago Review, 98 Choudhury, Malay Roy, 226 Clarke, Shirley, 139, 236 Clean Asshole Poems and Smiling Vegetable Songs (Orlovsky), 76, 78, 261–262, 268 The Connection (movie), 131n12, 136, 137 The Connection (play), 104, 112, 139n17 Constable, Rosalind, 103 Corso, Gregory, 44–50, 53, 57, 60, 62–64, 70–74, 76–77, 80–81, 91, 94–103, 110–112, 124, 126–131, 136, 138–143, 145–149, 151, 164, 177–179, 184, 186–187, 191–192, 211, 220, 226–228, 233, 235, 242, 248, 256; American Express (book), 126; Bomb (book), 99

285

286 Index

Cowen, Elise, 26, 28–30, 51–53, 55, 62, 67, 91–93, 114, 120, 146, 183, 187 Craven, Jay, 250 Creeley, Robert, 43, 46, 89, 103, 130, 200 The Crucible (Miller), 14 Day, Dorothy, 125 Dear Allen: Ship Will Land Jan 23, 58 (Orlovsky), 83 Decker, Annie, 216 DeLoach, Allen, 148, 222 Desolation Angels (Kerouac), 50 Di Prima, Diane, 92 Donlin, Bob, 47 Doyle, Kirby, 227 Du Peru, Peter, 102 Duncan, Robert, 211–212 Dylan, Bob, 211–212, 227, 264, 269 Eliot, T. S., 63, 212 Elliott, Helen, 50 Endgame (Beckett), 103 Esenin, Sergei, 86 Fainlight, Harry, 223 The Fall of America (Ginsberg), 249 Felieu, Denise, 242–244, 248–249, 256–261, 264–267, 269 Felieu, Rose, 267 Ferlinghetti, Lawrence, 2, 38, 43n39, 44, 47, 67, 95, 109, 114, 127n5, 145, 227, 238, 261 Flaming Creatures (movie), 215 Forest, Lee, 184 Fra Angelico, 68 Frank, Robert, 100n32, 221–222, 233, 281 Frechtman, Bernard, 71 Freeman, Ed, 127 The Fugs, 224, 227, 230 Ginsberg, Allen, 1–3, 13–18, 20–31, 33–34, 36–48, 50–67, 70–74, 76–78, 80–103, 107–121, 123–131, 134–136, 138–151, 153, 159, 164–166, 168, 171, 173–179, 181–

183–184, 186–189, 191, 196–198, 200–206, 208–214, 216–217, 219–227, 229–230, 232–240, 242, 244–252, 254–256, 259–260, 263–265, 267–270, 272, 274–277, 279, 281–282; “Aether” (poem), 116, 118; The Fall of America (book), 249; Howl and Other Poems (book), 31, 38–40, 44–45, 57–58, 63, 85; “Kaddish” (poem), 102, 208; “Laughing Gas” (poem), 93; “Magic Psalm” (poem), 118–119; “Siesta in Xbalba” (poem), 46 Giorno, John, 250, 258, 272 Girodias, Maurice, 71n10, 127–129 Goodman, Paul, 96 Grauerholz, James, 258 Gysin, Brion, 96, 126, 128, 133–134 Harloff, Guy, 77 Haverty, Joan, 177 Heine, Bill, 125, 132–133, 148, 206 Heller, Carol, 52–53, 55, 60, 62 Hohnsbeen, John, 126, 129 Höllerer, Walter, 96 Holmes, John Clellon, 28, 114 Howard, Richard, 85 Howl and Other Poems (Ginsberg), 31, 38–40, 44–45, 57–58, 63, 85 Huncke, Herbert, 111–114, 120, 125–126, 132, 148, 206, 211–212, 219, 222–223, 233, 235, 272 Hunt, Byron, 93, 255 Isis, Beverly, 271–272 Jackson, Natalie, 12–13, 19–20, 34, 103, 256 Jagger, Mick, 250 Janiger, Oscar, 216 Jayakar, Pupul, 104n41, 182n7, 185 Jayakar, Radhika, 104n41, 182n7, 183–186 Johnson, Joyce Glassman, 62, 85, 92 Jones, Hettie, 158, 211, 213 Jones, Jim, 132 Jones, Kellie, 158

Index 287

Jones, LeRoi, 119, 151, 158, 203, 208, 211, 213, 223 Joshi, Bhimsen, 205 “Kaddish” (Ginsberg), 102, 208 Kaufman, Bob, 120, 134, 158, 181, 234 Kennedy, John, 127, 134, 213 Kennedy, Robert, 203, 213, 216 Kerouac, Jack, 3, 25–26, 28, 39, 42–43, 47–48, 50–55, 57, 60–62, 67–68, 70, 72–75, 86, 88, 90, 92, 95–101, 111–112, 116, 118–119, 147, 158–159, 177, 186–187, 192–193, 211–212, 250, 256, 269; Desolation Angels (book), 50; On the Road (book), 70, 73; The Subterraneans (book), 86, 119 Kerouac, Jan, 177, 224 Krim, Seymour, 114 Kyger, Joanne, 171, 176–177, 179, 181, 183–186, 192, 204–205 Lal, Chatur, 179, 190 Lamantia, Philip, 33, 234 “Laughing Gas” (Ginsberg), 93 LaVigne, Robert, 1, 3–10, 12–16, 20, 27, 35, 61, 92–94, 98, 103, 189–191, 255–256 Leary, Timothy, 124, 192, 216 Lee, Carl, 131, 138 Leslie, Alfred, 100n32 Levy, Stella, 224, 227 Lieberman, Juanita, 277 Lief, Charles, 282 Lief, Judy, 282 Loewinsohn, Ron, 52–53 Lowell, Robert, 249 Lowenthal, Leo, 40 “Magic Psalm” (Ginsberg), 118–119 Malcolm X, 221 Malina, Judith, 96n24 Manjula, 196–197, 201–202, 212– 213, 225 Marshall, Edward, 116, 133, 211 Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 86 McClure, Michael, 33, 45, 47, 216

Me and My Brother (movie), 221 Melville, Herman, 62, 155–156 Member of the Wedding (movie), 19 Micheline, Jack, 92, 211 Minoo, Bakht, 210, 215–216 Miriam, 165–168 Mitchell, Joan, 92 Moreland, Dusty, 26, 28 Muller, Dodie, 97–98, 100 Murao, Shig, 256–257 Naked Lunch (Burroughs), 55, 58, 62–63, 71, 219, 222 Naropa Institute, 247, 250–251, 263, 267, 270, 276–277 New Ways in Psychoanalysis (Horney), 8 Norman, Dorothy, 180 O’Hara, Frank, 92, 96, 112, 158 Oldenburg, Patty, 250 Olson, Charles, 53 On the Road (Kerouac), 70, 73 Orlovsky, Julius, 22, 31, 36, 50–52, 65–66, 69–70, 78, 80, 85–87, 90, 93, 96–97, 104, 107, 120, 180, 208, 211, 214–224, 226, 231–233, 236–239, 242–243, 258, 263, 271 Orlovsky, Katherine, 4, 10–11, 18–19, 21–23, 25, 30–40, 42–44, 47–51, 55–58, 61–73, 75–76, 90, 92, 95, 101, 104, 106–108, 121–124, 126, 129, 131–132, 143–147, 150, 155– 157, 159–164, 166–169, 171–176, 179–182, 185, 187–188, 192–193, 200–201, 206, 210–211, 214–215, 236, 238–239, 243–246, 248–249, 266, 271–273, 275 Orlovsky, Lafcadio, 25–50, 52–53, 55–56, 58–60, 63–65, 69–70, 73– 76, 85, 87, 89, 92–93–97, 101, 104, 108–111, 114, 116, 119, 121–126, 128, 132–135, 146–147, 161, 164, 168–169, 171–175, 179–180, 206, 210–211, 214, 234, 236–239, 242, 245, 247–249, 266, 271–273, 275 Orlovsky, Marie, 37, 40–41, 44, 49, 51, 55, 64–65, 67–70, 73, 90–91, 100, 104, 107, 134, 142, 148–150,

288 Index

Orlovsky, Marie (continued), 160, 171–172, 175–176, 181–182, 185, 187–188, 192–193, 206, 210–211, 214–215, 236, 238–239, 244–249, 271–273, 275 Orlovsky, Nicholas, 3–4, 18–19, 22–23, 25–27, 29–30, 32, 41, 49–52, 55–56, 58, 66, 74, 86, 104, 106–107, 125–126, 129, 135, 172, 188, 197, 212, 214, 232–233, 238–239, 261, 271 Orlovsky, Oleg, 3, 10, 22, 36, 42, 49, 89–93, 101, 106–108, 121, 125, 132, 143–145, 148–151, 156, 172, 180, 182, 214, 238–239, 243, 246–247, 249, 272–274, 280 Parker, Dorothy, 144 Parker, Helen, 28 Parra, Nicanor, 112 Phipps, Harry, 95, 184 Plant, Sheila, 94 Plymell, Charles, 226–227, 258 Renaldo and Clara (movie), 269 Rexroth, Kenneth, 33, 43, 45, 47 Rexroth, Marthe Larsen, 43, 47 Rimbaud, Arthur, 45–46, 71, 170 Rivers, Larry, 92, 100n33 Rosen, John, 93 Rosenthal, Irving, 105, 112, 115–116, 132–134, 146, 161, 183–184, 228, 230, 232, 235 Rubin, Barbara, 217, 232, 235–237 Rumaker, Michael, 85 Sagan, Françoise, 129 Sanders, Ed, 211, 214, 217, 221–224, 227, 230, 272 Savage, Hope, 177, 187, 189, 191–192 Schlachler, Henry, 42–43 Seyrig, Delphine, 101n34 Shankar, Ravi, 186, 191 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 7, 97 “Siesta in Xbalba” (Ginsberg), 46 Six Gallery, 33, 39 Smith, Harry, 214 Smith, Jack, 215

Snyder, Gary, 33, 38, 45, 171, 176–179, 183–186, 192, 203–205, 226, 251–252, 254–255 Solomon, Carl, 90, 97, 120, 122, 222, 234 Sommerville, Ian, 133 Spengler, Oswald, 35, 68 Stern, Jacques, 95n20, 139–140, 143, 178 Straight Hearts’ Delight (Orlovsky), 148 Streckfus, Kathy, 273 Sublette, Al, 102–103 Sublette, Connie, 102n38, 103 The Subterraneans (Kerouac), 86, 119 Thompson, Bob, 133 Time, 102 The Trial (Kafka), 16, 193 Trocchi, Alex, 133 Trungpa, Chögyam, 247, 250–251, 273–275 Ungerer, Joy, 83, 85, 91 Urich, Ed, 258 Vega, Janine Pommy, 114, 124–126, 128–130, 132–134, 145–146, 148, 161, 183–184, 206, 211 Verlaine, Paul, 46 Wakoski, Diane, 211–212 Waldman, Anne, 250, 255 Warshall, Peter, 226 Weaver, Helen, 50 Whalen, Philip, 33, 42–43, 205, 211, 227 Whitman, Walt, 34, 43, 206 Wieners, John, 53, 111–112, 119, 222 Wilentz, Joan Steen, 224 Wilentz, Ted, 175, 202–203, 212, 224 Williams, Sheila, 13–14, 16, 22, 93–94, 96 Williams, Tennessee, 144 Williams, William Carlos, 3, 32, 92, 96 Yacoubi, Ahmed, 142, 144, 150

Index of Orlovsky’s Poems by First Line The airplane shook the house, 77 All the bugs in the zoo die, 112 All the world, 108–109 Another alphabet, 120 Another night with Chandoo, 194 Any Haig who thinks of, 273 At night the jeweler dreams, 75 Benares: roof top looking, 198–199 Between the lines of love lay death, 108 A black web is in every bed (“Mental Ward at Night”), 87 A butterfly lay burnt and crushed against a Texas, 77 Buy some land before it disappears, 253 Crying windows, 74 The Department of Sanitation, 115 Don’t be dumb Peter, why have a vasectomy?, 245–246 Don’t Beat me baby (“Got Your Hot Cooken”), 280 Don’t cry, 278 The doorbell rang, 75 Drink orange juice (“Bullshit Insanity Jumbles”), 217–218 Early morning wake up in Calcutta, 194–196 The falling flower, 88 Feet dance for money (“Last Poem”), 283 15,000,000 tons of munitions were dropped, 253–254 Get smothered by, 208–209 Girls pass us, 79 Going over to my father’s, 117 The grass is blue, 279 Have a habit, 113 The heal of my foot is sick, 236 Home, 118 How many birds are, 241 I did not look like Indian and so not mad, 179 I guess I’m tired and smoking too much and coming, 113

289

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290 Index of Poems by First Line

I kinda would like to hold Christ’s hand, 266 I meet Kafka and he jump Poem, 122 I saw land in the sky, 84 I stand on a platform or (“Third Poem”), 87 I told Allen not to, 75 I took a walk where they all walk, 105 I wants to be a toilet yogi poet, 225 I wouldn’t want to, 115 If today I do nothing, 80 If your feet smell, wash em (“Peter’s Teaching Poem”), 270 I’m a standing on, 228–229 I’m glad to be alive, 155 In a cave, 119 In a dream, 120 It’s raining outside, 141 Knowing Neal Cassady and Jack Kerouac for a good thirteen years (“Wishing to Be a Better Friend”), 275–276 Lafcadio is watching me, so I can’t, 121 Laff and I go to movies (“4-D Man”), 110 Let’s go plant ‘an apple tree, 240 A little red ant crawling by my bed mat, 204 Many chairs are alone in the, 75 Monday Wednesday and Friday, 231 Morning again, 137–138 The movie had a death feature, 110–111 My mother thinks I, 225–226 My own writing is like me, or (“My Own Writing”), 128 Night falls like an egg on Paris, 78 Nothing like a hot dish of, 75 Oh the City is waste, 259 One red footprint in the snow, 80–81 Pepper and salt always on the, 75 Peter wants a naked baby, 168 Please come in, 77 Poets who buy beer, don’t buy poetry (“Don’t Buy Beer”), 264 A rainbow comes pouring into my window (“Frist Poem”), 78, 122 Reading a story, 119 She is twenty-eight and said, 269 Sun falls, 276–277 The Sun is Juanita, 277 There is more to sorrow, 115 There was a taxi cab funeral, 77 There’s a raspberry under your chin, 262 There’s our small country dump (“Scrambled Leaves Poem”), 259 Today I study some characters, 198 Two apples, 120 Vegetable sellers shout, 200 Well, it’s a big school, 270–271

Index of Poems by First Line 291

What a dirty lie COCA COLA is the Real, 259–260 What harm can come to a, 130 What is this?, 80 What kind of life do you keep?, 103–104 What thoughts race through my mind, 109 When all the hospitals ate all the hospitals, 280 When asked what do (“TV Baby Pete”), 278 When something and nothing, 142 Where are all my old man, 123 Where on the heart, 105 White sky over 12th Street, 277 Will I pass out of this world, 113 With my cock I stabbed a banana, 109 Yodeling in the $60,000 airplane (“Tornado Typewriter Tomatoes”), 274 Young flesh bouncing under tight smooth suits (“Coney Island, U.S.A.”), 28

Peter Anton Orlovsky (1933–2010) was more than just the long-time partner of Allen Ginsberg; he was a poet in his own right. Orlovsky’s work has appeared in The New American Poetry 1945–1960 (1960) and The Beatitude Anthology (1965). His work has been included in literary magazines such as Yugen and Outsider. His book, Clean Asshole Poems & Smiling Vegetable Songs, was published by City Lights in 1978. Orlovsky appeared in films such as Andy Warhol’s Couch (1965) and the Robert Frank films Pull My Daisy (1959; based on a Kerouac script) and Me and My Brother (1969). Bill Morgan is an American writer, known for his work as an archivist and bibliographer for popular figures such as Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Abbie Hoffman, and Timothy Leary. Morgan was Allen Ginsberg’s personal archivist and bibliographer. Over their 20-year relationship, Morgan became quite close to Ginsberg and wrote his biography, I Celebrate Myself: The Somewhat Private Life of Allen Ginsberg (2006). Morgan has written extensively on the Beat Generation and its key figures.