That’s all that matters, getting drunk, so I don’t have to put up with the looks and the manners, the behavior of the majority; eyebrows, eyebrows shit. A little beer, some poetry and looking at the pictures on the wall: I can jump into those pictures endlessly, be part of them; I die inside them, I disconnect and when I wake up, I have a hundred cigarettes in my ash, damn ashtray: ‘… whose are they’, I say: ‘… me, me’, my mind says, my second self repeats: the oils the old man painted, he lived in Alaska, he got hurt, now he’s drunk up there, Harvey, the bartender, tells me every night that’s what he’s doing, painting, he learned it in Alaska: snow and ocean scenes , it is a great art, he was wounded by a bear, mutilated, as if he were a sea lion for the bear to eat, and when the bear noticed that it was human flesh, he stopped, hesitated and let it be. ; I want to see him, I don’t know why, he is a survivor; he would say to me: “Twenty-year-old pica, go to hell, let me get drunk, get your ass out of my sight!”. that’s what he would say; he lives in a hole above the bar; get drunk old fool, that’s what i say, just like me, in your dingy hushed room

I do it every night. I don’t hear the clocks, I’m too drunk to, I can’t see the stars, I never look that high: waking up from drunkenness is a real decline, You see the shadows moan, you roll here and there (I sleep on a couch in a dojo; block upstairs, Castro area) and swear his heart would jump out of its socket, swerve, hit the floor, and probably roll down those goddamn steps onto Collins Street. The wind inside your head: it changes, it is also drunk, as I am getting now. Never stop to rest; you will hear the heart beating in your chest! That is the moment when you write poetry, or you pass out. That’s the fun of getting drunk, you don’t care, you don’t know, and the loneliness.

Yes, loneliness. It’s bad or good she says: that’s what I always read: he says, she says. The ghosts think it’s good, the priests think it’s good, and they both do enough. The dead don’t have a choice, so I guess it’s part of the cycle of life: so it’s good. It’s like killing the spirit: loneliness, or awakening it: whatever you need. Loneliness mixed with drunkenness is like a journey, drowned in the vapors of fermenting decomposition: enthusiastic decomposition. A true drunk does not get sick: it is pleasure or fainting, a lot of work, a lot of time, and mirrors in your mind, poetic mind webbed; drunkenness will stimulate the rich imagination, disturb it, purify it, make the world of dreams inhale more sensations; create a raw atmosphere.

Let me live and die in the deep odors of my drink: in it I will immerse my whole life; like a thirsty pig drinking from a mud puddle; the mind floats, shuddering in a waterproof and endless pitcher of foamy beer: it drinks with foam and poetry.

Not everyone is given to bathe in the pleasures of the spirits. Cradled by a living demon. Oh no, face the devil, restrain him before he dries up: orgy time, find him a prostitute, one with a weak soul, well, he says, no, bring him to me, happy are the people who feed. this world, with poisoned intoxication.

Finally! I say it’s time to go home, UN-descript is my behavior. First of all, I get up from my stool, I turn around, I look, I look at any old place, who gives a shit, just look: regain my balance and turn again, increase my attention to the door instead of the damn wall. Horrible life, I say. But I will recap this day, tomorrow. The TV on the wall turns off. A few handshakes, someone says: “Three minutes, to get out, it’s the law!” The asshole wants to go home with his buddy and get fucked. The stupidest thought I’ve ever heard, “Three minutes, it’s the law.” I wonder how the old idiot is upstairs, maybe killing himself. I am not the lowest of men; grant me that grace, whoever reads this. [May 8, 1968, San Francisco: from notes]

IN SPANISH

Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Spanish version

Translated by Nancy Penaloza

Edited by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

A Drunk Day and Night

(In San Francisco)) May, 1968))

That’s all that matters, getting drunk, that way I don’t need to put up with the looks and mannerisms, behavior of many; the forehead, the eyebrows, the nonsense. A little beer, some poetry, and looking at the photos on the wall: I can jump into those photos to no end, become part of them; die inside them, zone off and when I wake up, I have hundreds of cigarette butts in my ashtray, damn ashtray …”whose are they” I say: “mine, mine”, my mind says, my conscience repeats: The paintings of oil the old man painted, he suffered in Alaska, he got hurt, he’s up there now drunk, Harvey the bartender tells me every night that’s what he’s doing, painting away, he learned this in Alaska: snow and ocean scenes , great art this is, he was injured by a bear, mistreated, as if he were a sea lion for the bear to eat, and when the bear noticed that it was human meat, he stopped, hesitating, and let him go; I want to see him, I’m not sure why, he’s a survivor; he’d say to me, “Twenty year old rude, fuck you, let me get drunk, get your ass out of my sight!” that’s what he would say; he lives upstairs in a sober hole in the bar; getting drunk old fool, that’s what I say, just like me, in his dreary room off of him.

I do it every night. I don’t hear the clocks, I’m too drunk too, I can’t see the stars, I never look up so high: waking up from a drunken spree is a real deterioration, You hear the moan of the shadows, you roll here and there (I sleep on a sofa at the martial arts academy; up the block, in the Castro area) and I swear your heart is going to pound out of its pit-jump back and forth, on the floor, and probably roll down those goddamn stairs on the collins street. The venezo inside your head: he moves, he’s drunk too, the way I’m getting now. Never interrupt to rest; you will see your heart beat inside your chest! That’s the time you write poetry, or you pass out. That’s what’s fun about getting drunk, you don’t care, you don’t know, and loneliness.

Yes, loneliness. This is good or bad he says: that’s what I always read: he says, she says. The ghosts think it’s good, the priests think it’s good, and they do enough of both. Death doesn’t have a choice so I guess it’s part of the cycle of life: so that’s good. Is something like killing the spirit: loneliness, or waking up from this: what you need. Solitude mixed with drunkenness is like a journey, drowned in the fumes of the shock of decadence: enthusiastic decadence. A real drunk won’t get sick: it’s pleasure or pass out, a lot of work, a lot of time, and mirrors in your mind, poetic mind entangled; drunkenness stimulates the rich imagination, harass it, make it pure, make the ideal world by breathing more sensations; created a raw atmosphere.

Let me live and die in the deep odors of my drink: in it I will sink the whole of my life; like a thirsty pig drinking from a mud puddle; the mind floats, trembling inside an endless mug of foamy beer: drink with foam and poetry.

It is not given to anyone to take a shower in the pleasures of the spirit; cradled by the living demon. Oh no, he faces the devil, restrain him before he gets drunk: orgy time, find him a prostitute, one with a weak soul, well, he says, don’t–bring it to me, happy are the people who get food in this world, with poisoned intoxication

Finally! I say it’s time to go home, my behavior is inexplicable. First of all, I stand up from my stool, I turn around, I look, I look at any old place, who cares, just look: I get my balance, and turn around again, turn my attention to the door instead of the damn wall . Horrible life I say. But I will remember this day, tomorrow. The TV on the wall is off. Some dice, someone, “Three minutes to go out, this is the law” The asshole wants to go home with his buddy and get to make love. The stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, “Three minutes, this is the law.” I wonder what the eccentric old man is doing upstairs, committing suicide perhaps. I am not the most inferior man, grant me this grace, anyone who reads this.

[Mayo 8, 1968, San Francisco: de las notas] #1166/modified: March 2, 2006 (at the Minnesota Coffee House)