and there is melancholy, once again, throughout the realm.
and I"m that soul, small as it is.
HAVE FELT SAME BEFORE The death of consciousness is terrible and yet! when all is ended what regret?
"S none left to remember or forget.
And"s gone into the odd.
The only thing I fear is the Last Chance. I"ll see that last chance too before I"m done, Old Mind. All them old Last Chances that you knew before.
-- someday thru the dream wall to nextdoor consciousness like thru this blue hotel wall -- millions of hotel rooms fogging the focus of my eyes -- with whatever att.i.tude I hold the cotton to my nose, it"s still a secret joke with pinky akimbo, or with effete queer eye in mirror at myself, or serious-brow mein & darkened beard, I"m still the kid of obscene chance await- ing -- breathing in a chinese Universe thru the nose like some old Brahamic G.o.d.
O BELL TIME RING THY MIDNIGHT FOR THE BILLIONTH SOUNDY TIME, I HEAR AGAIN!
I"ll go to walk the street, Who"ll find me in the night, in Lima, in my 33"d year, On Street (Cont.) The souls of Peter & I answer each other.
But -- and what"s a soul?
To be a poet"s a serious occupation, condemned to that in universe -- to walk the city ascribbling in a book -- just accosted by a drunk -- in Plaza de Armas sidestreet under a foggy sky, and sometimes with no moon.
The heavy balcony hangs over the white marble of the Bishop"s Palace next the Cathedral -- The fountain plays in light as e"er -- The buss & the motorcyclists pa.s.s thru midnight, the carlights shine the beggar turns a corner with his cigarette stub & cane, the Noisers leave the tavern and delay, conversing in high voice, Awake, Hasta Manana they all say -- and somewhere at the other end of the line, a telephone is ringing, once again with unknown news -- The night looms over Lima, sky black fog -- and I sit helpless smoking with a pencil hand -- The long crack in the pavement or yesterday"s Volcano in Chile, or the day before the Earthquake that begat the World.
The Plaza pavement shines in the electric light. I wait.
The lonely beard workman staggers home to bed from Death.
Yes but I"m a little tired of being alone . . .
Keats" Nightingale -- the instant of realization a single consciousness that hears the chimes of Time, repeated endlessly -- All night, w/ Ether, wave after wave of magic understanding. A dis- turbance of the field of consciousness.
Magic night, magic stars, magic men, magic music, magic tomorrow, magic death, magic Magic.
What crude Magic we live in (seeing trolley like a rude monster in downtown street w/ electric diamond wire antennae to sky pa.s.s night cafe under white arc-light by Gran Hotel Bolivar.) The mad potter of Mochica made a pot w/ 6 Eyes & 2 Mouths & half a Nose & 5 Cheeks & no Chin for us to figure out, serious side-track, blind alley Kosmos.
(Back in Room) How the strange to remember anything, even a b.u.t.ton much less a universe.
"What creature gives birth to itself?"
The universe is mad, slightly mad.
-- and the two sides wriggle away in opposite directions to die lopped off the blind metallic length curled up feebly & wiggling its feet in the gra.s.s the millepede"s black head moving inches away on the staircase at Macchu Picchu the Creature feels itself destroyed, head & tail of the universe cut in two.
Men with slick mustaches of mystery have pimp horrible climaxes & Karmas -- -- the mad magician that created Chaos in the peaceful void & suave.
with my f.u.c.king suave manners & knowitall eyes, and mind full of fantasy -- the Me! that horror that keeps me conscious in this h.e.l.l of Birth & Death.
34 coming up -- I suddenly felt old -- sitting with Walter & Raquel in Chinese Restaurant -- they kissed -- I alone -- age of Burroughs when we first met.
Hotel Commercio Lima, Peru May 28, 1960