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^morepoetryfromthenightssincewe’relockedin&Aprilispoetry& jazz month~

Right Before I met Vincent

or the unBeatbeating

“the room was full of drunk poets and I don’t know what. (fr. Jonas Mekas NYdiary1958)

then Right before I met Vincent
in 1959
the year Billie Holiday diedwhose last performance I attended and
whose life and death hangs me out still.
I lean against the outcry mourning
the death of jazz singing
Pissed off and absurd we of
the Mercury lounge reading.
I hate NY readings when it turns into a bloodsport.

but we swigged it outJacko was there and
gCorso,and Allen, of course, Burroughs (who invitedme) They were with me onthat stage back to front 7:30Read read readby 7:40 (what is that line in AllAboutEve)about there being a ‘MacBethish air.’

7:45, my body, my heart, my flask.

TJean, my luv

was past soused/Corsosososo,
& Gerald was doing the Malanga frug offstage & still

reciting his poetry all night long,

Gerald had the best beats

though everyone was too smashed to really drink it in

except Allen
diagonally there was always there was Allenbreathing heavy presided over the fallout

was the voice of wetbrain sobriety&

Leroi knew when to exit

a Columbia celebrawl

div>some even took it as livingdead theater

more like a pissing match

yep, it got ugly loving each other’s work

of loving each others work we took off our dukes and found out that we hated each other after all.

I was called a fouffyfaggotrepeatedl by some hidden

voice & of course Allen kept laughing

he lives for stuff like that.

Hardly a put down, he was penciling

in the holes for Howl

aumaumaum, those Beats

They really can be crashing bores

not to mention act like a bunch of pimpless whores
Kerouac yells to me“You’re ruining American

Poetry O’Hara”and I yell back“That’s more than you fuckin’ ever did for it.”So TiJean love, I’m not going to Frisco…I’m staying here

It’s going to be a bubonic plague of a summer

To say that
I hate everybody almost

as much as I hate myself would

be dramaqueeny.
then John said fuck off you poseur I stumbled over Allen’s potsandals

then dropped my shot and attempted an escape Gerald kept frugging as Edie looked on

then I met Vincent there swaying on the sweaty threshold he asked me to dance, and so anyway

fell out the door with Gerald’s last verse

flying in our ears like a bolt from Mercury