now playing some Armenian or Turkish music on radio, from the Fez. a little cafe-like place down next to the Racing Form building. I went there one night, quite drunk really, they didn’t want to let me in at first, but I was in one of my warm and gentle moods and they relented. I sat on a big pillow on the floor and some big warm wench kept bringing me all kinds of strange drinks but none of them knocked me out like continuous American whiskey would have and I felt warmer and warmer. there was plenty of alcohol in the drinks, I could taste it, the expert, but it only kept me CLEAR. people, men and women came around and sat on pillows and talked to me. I didn’t want any ass. I just wanted to feel the people. and it was marvelous. and all the time, this strange music. I just kept laughing and enjoying, all sophistication all ego gone, burned-out. I don’t think any man really wants to be a prick, really wants to hate, it is only pressures that make him hate. of course, I don’t care for this THOU MUST LOVE, either. I don’t like love as a command, as a search. it must come to you, like a hungry cat at the door. what? hearing this music reminds me of that good night. I am not always as hard as my poems. [***]

[To Ann Menebroker]

November 23, 1966

good on your acceptances, no surprise to me, you seem to be gaining on yourself, damn good sign; me, I’m showing slippage but little I can do…[***]

Xmas season is when the populace really becomes beastly. they cram and run and flurry wild and mama empty-eyed; me, me, I got! we got! my family! safe! goods! roof! food! a drink in hand! whoopee!—what sickening stuff. it’s pressure and haste, a MUST. nothing easy or good about it.

then…HAPPY NEW YEAR. ugggg. [* * *]

[To Douglas Blazek]

December 11, 1966