Oct. 29, 1965
you hard cement-name baby I got your copy of Spero “I” today, my thanks, and the littles continue on, punching out of the woodwork as my guts withy and cry to green booze, ah, thanks anyhow, it has been smog here and alerts, and after one hundred degrees, and the race riots, and I lay awake sleepless my tongue burned with cheap cigarsand too many cigarettes, and I really can’t read too much poetry anymore, it just won’t go down into my head or my bowels or my pecker or my soul if my soul is there. my eyes just look at the print and tumble off. too many factories? too many wasted hours? who knows?
I don’t have any poems on hand right now except the one I finished writing 5 minutes ago–the sparrows are back now with their cardboard beaks and their water-sweet eyes and their ever-shitting bodies, twitching looking at me–and I sum#bit this for a look, meanwhile, perhaps something else later.
on the book, CRUCIFIX IN A DEATHHAND, I am out of my copies and I’m afraid that if anybody wants one they’ll have to send $7.50 to Lyle Stuart Inc., 239 Park Ave. South, New York, 3, New York.
the clock says I have to go in again to where I don’t want to go on in. no guts, and neither good with pistol or pimping, but still working on the horses.