[To Jon and Louise Webb]

September 7, 1965

I had 5 days off (Labor Day + 4) and a hell of a five, and I’m glad I wasn’t with you because my mind drew a blank and I fell all over myself, drunk in the streets, I am now lousy bloody bruised—each knee and elbow a blash and scab of blood where I landed each time, drunk, dumping myself like damn keen garbage—what a mess, and no sense to it, I know. my new system seems to work but no good because as soon as I make it I blow it, give it away on the streets, burn it burn it, my god sometimes I think I am truly crazy, but hell, here I sit, trying to shape up for tomorrow to go back in if the job is still there, and I never know—I have a habit of showing in places like that and raising a lot of shit. lost my job at the Biltmore hotel that way. no matter. and it’s my teeth too, I’ve got a half dozen them aching and I can’t sleep—but why all these complaints? I bring on my own woe. I keep thinking of Crane jumping off the back of that ship. of course, Crane was a homo, but he was also human. I don’t think anybody but a drunk can understand the terrible the horrible horrible BLUES!!! a hangover can bring! of course, I am no longer hung now, am fairly high, and even enclose a half-dozen poems I batted off tonight. not that it matters that they are good or not; what matters is a little juice is flowing, good or bad, there’s a little flowing again. I had a hell of a period, it was like steel walls built all around me. but now a little song and dance. it’s not excellence we want, it’s a kind of going-on, a clown’s gesture. it took some deciding to come to this. I think we are all too careful. fuck reputation. if I have a reputation it’s only the dirty work of others. I have a right to go on. nobody has the rights to rope and bind me. fuck ’em.