Corso? Ginsberg? maybe I am jealous of the big cats? they’ve got one thing I got—clarity of style, but they’ve got a little too much the sweet tooth for their own soul (soul-importance) and they suck up a lot of bait. Camus said we’ve got to be a part of History and get out with it, but I am not sure he meant on-stage bellowing to the idol-lovers. still, I am full of too much complaint, I guess, but I have turned down some offers to prance on stage for $$$, good place to sleep, food, drinks, fare, that bit. I’d have to be pretty hungry. (see Behan, see D. Thomas, see Christ.) the come-on is only a softener so they can rope you, kill you. I go with Jeffers—the best friend is a rock wall. (see Capone.) people do come to my door and I open it and treat them nicely, mostly because I don’t have the guts to do otherwise, and also because they can easily have more than I. but then, too, these people are mostly peekers and the whole thing has nothing to do with CREATION or slamming the keys down, crackcrackcrack vapvap. I’ve got to be a loner because most of the time I am shoved into factories and places I don’t want to be, and in order to get out of the spaghetti I have to crawl under the rug. I am not a snob and I am not precious and I am not playing genius; but where were these people when I was starving and freezing in a shack in Atlanta, when I was living in a cardboard shack without light, heat, water, food, toilet, hope, for a dollar and a quarter a week? where were these people when I was in jail, or on the park benches? where were these people when I turned the gas on one night and tried to kill myself? in Los Angeles? in hell? their sweet knocks, their quips, their stares…who wants them? if I fail to write any more poetry, they will be the first to say…“he’s lost it. he’s finished.” I don’t need their judgements. all I need is a sheet of paper, a typer, some food and some rent. win or lose, talent or no, age or death…I am, I was a human being. I never had a desire to look at a writer, to knock at his door, maybe because most writers never did me any good; maybe because I figured what they wrote was all they owed me,—if they owed me that. so, I’m just a crank who has had surgery of the asshole. fine, then.

bit of race rioting in Watts last night—not much—a Mexican and Negro killed, 25 injured. not much? I hear you laugh. I thought so. some writer, a guy who makes it professionally via the sex and nudey bit, phoned me last night. “I’ve got my gun loaded! I’m ready!” he said. this guy doesn’t even live in Los Angeles. highly sensitive sort. then his doorbell rang and he just about zeroed out. I think I heard the safety catch go off. “gotta go,” he said. “see you.” he probably shot a Western Union boy with a dark tan. [* * *]