are…even dear Ol’ Fry has a tender spot I’m sure…I cannot sit here & forget that they are asking me…from the future to guarantee them a spot…a job to do, something to hold onto…like no one gave us…I will get through to my rep. con. nat. mind…the idea of the female…Buk…you just got to put up with it…because gramps says ah iz never wrong even…when ah aint wrong ah iz right…all right you take over “where gramps left off” because any form given to me will be passed on to the tender females of the New India of the next 2000 years & they will adore you Buk & wish themselves back into the past to pick up yr beer cans & remove some of the “bang bang bang” violence from thy heart…yr harem…Sheri’s New Indians…“and the republican convention national mind” oh gawd…but dammit Buk… WHEN U ARE THE LIGHT IT IS NATURALLY DARK ALL AROUND YOU…BUT THAT DON’T MEAN YEW IZ IN “THE DARK…” IT IS MILES WITH HIS RUDDY ZUNZHINE THAT IS IN THE DARK…YEW IZ IN THE LIGHT …or at least yew iz a light bulb…that the cosmic electricity is burning up at a terrible speed…“bang bang bang” (a shoot-um-up) of course…it will all be lost…my dear Buk…that’s the fun of it…to do it anyhow…you are talking to a Tree that knows her leaves will fall & vanish into dirt…but the pattern remains…“the dream remains”…
the IDEAS we are having via letter…is what my New Indians will cherish…I ask you to love them as I do…because they will be getting their little poor hands chopped off for stealing bread…whereas…you & I…have to now…been enjoying a freedom they will not know…please help me love the phantom children…now & then I see a pair of green eyes in a gold face…so absolutely…not…Buk…I iz aint gonna let nobody die…while I am the Queen of the Beats…I am seated upon the right hand side of the high Prince of the Innermost Hell & far from my Paradise…& I do know…but right under his lousy nose…I’m not gonna let anybody die…& where they will send me from here…for this crime…oh I donno…donno…I am eating my pomegrante seeds & spittin’ them in his chops…do not reveal my position or all’s lost…lost…lost…that is why I cuss’s Miles…he wanted to broadcast my position…
Heaven & Hell are split second next to one another…in one sentence it is possible to live in both…but what is not possible…is to remain in one or the other…for longer than that split second…donno why…
all right “no spartan rules” for Buk to shoot down…but must “discipline spirit” or my matter will go plumb to hell…in the earthly sense…I mean I will fall apart…man I am a New York City chick…& I go to hell real easy…alls ya gotta say is boo…& there I am…on the street…Bad Street havin a ball…“a Street Princess”—
god help the rooohoooshuns when they taste american whiskey…it will eat holes in their national mind…
dear Buk…I mean “education” the way gramps meant it…he had one hand on my breasts & one eye on me…& one hand on Ovid’s Metamorph & one eye on th’ book & his mouth on mine…dear Educational Gramps.
now we to Jory in yr letter/
yes you are entirely correct—yes gramps said: “i didn’t breed until I was over 40” real artist…yes…do not let them trap you…an artist is the father the mother the wife the husband the child…don’t let them accept less…make them take allor nothing…baby…you are right…right…Fry is a sentimental trapp’rrrr…yes what you say about Jory is correct…he will have his “back alley fights & lock himself in a cellar for 6 months”…they always take a person like Jory & stick him out front & let his beautiful sincerity…represent…then…he will have a time to “walk on thin ice & face tigers”
he will be dreadfully hurt—I wont let him down…because I saw him help that girl on with her coat…as tho’ she were a lady…he’ll get hurt…
the IDEAS we are having via letter…is what my New Indians will cherish…I ask you to love them as I do…because they will be getting their little poor hands chopped off for stealing bread…whereas…you & I…have to now…been enjoying a freedom they will not know…please help me love the phantom children…now & then I see a pair of green eyes in a gold face…so absolutely…not…Buk…I iz aint gonna let nobody die…while I am the Queen of the Beats…I am seated upon the right hand side of the high Prince of the Innermost Hell & far from my Paradise…& I do know…but right under his lousy nose…I’m not gonna let anybody die…& where they will send me from here…for this crime…oh I donno…donno…I am eating my pomegrante seeds & spittin’ them in his chops…do not reveal my position or all’s lost…lost…lost…that is why I cuss’s Miles…he wanted to broadcast my position…
Heaven & Hell are split second next to one another…in one sentence it is possible to live in both…but what is not possible…is to remain in one or the other…for longer than that split second…donno why…
all right “no spartan rules” for Buk to shoot down…but must “discipline spirit” or my matter will go plumb to hell…in the earthly sense…I mean I will fall apart…man I am a New York City chick…& I go to hell real easy…alls ya gotta say is boo…& there I am…on the street…Bad Street havin a ball…“a Street Princess”—
god help the rooohoooshuns when they taste american whiskey…it will eat holes in their national mind…
dear Buk…I mean “education” the way gramps meant it…he had one hand on my breasts & one eye on me…& one hand on Ovid’s Metamorph & one eye on th’ book & his mouth on mine…dear Educational Gramps.
now we to Jory in yr letter/
yes you are entirely correct—yes gramps said: “i didn’t breed until I was over 40” real artist…yes…do not let them trap you…an artist is the father the mother the wife the husband the child…don’t let them accept less…make them take allor nothing…baby…you are right…right…Fry is a sentimental trapp’rrrr…yes what you say about Jory is correct…he will have his “back alley fights & lock himself in a cellar for 6 months”…they always take a person like Jory & stick him out front & let his beautiful sincerity…represent…then…he will have a time to “walk on thin ice & face tigers”
he will be dreadfully hurt—I wont let him down…because I saw him help that girl on with her coat…as tho’ she were a lady…he’ll get hurt…
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