“What happens if you make a distinction between what you tell your friends and what you tell your Muse?”

West of Laramie, Elk Mt. snow covered top—Medicine Bow Mts. ranged black—that Road still ribbons past red sandstone buttes—“Looks like you shd be a yogi on each rock”—down the vast green valley floor

    Like Utah, like America, mountain rookeries cliffed distant under cloud-fished transparent sky—the Blue Shield, that might be heaven over the Ferris Mountains’ precipices (illustration) striped under snow dusty pine ridges.
    Great Divide Basin up Rt. 287 grey mud lake at Muddy Gap—Rock wall leaned up from colossal ditch, smooth stone sheet cracked by brush upsprung—Rattlesnake Range rocks bunched up in mountain piles north blue sky’d—Dry wood snowfences snaked straight up hill south of the highway, wood slats x’d together.

Those high lunches needn’t matter
If you are of businessman’s age
Anyway he enjoyed creating food

Midwinter night,
     Clark & Halstead brushed with this week’s snow
     grill lights blinking at the corner

OK Neal
    aethereal Spirit
             bright as moving air

Switch on lights yellow as the sun 
                                                    in the bedroom... 
The gaudy poet dead         Frank O'Hara's bones 

Time comes spirit weakens and goes blank apartments shuffled through and forgotten
The dead in their cenotaphs locomotive high schools & African cities small town motorcycle graves

These are fragments of a conversation held in New York City on December 28th, 1978. My friend Peter Orlovsky was also in attendance. This dialogue was taped at the Chelsea Hotel, walking 23rd Street to a coffee shop, in a taxi, up 6th Avenue, walking in the village. . .

 

Re LSD, Psylocibin [sic], etc., Paris Review #37 p. 46: “So I couldn’t go any further. I may later on occasion, if I feel more reassurance.”