Beat Punks

by Victor Bockris

  He must have come back in via the fire escape, because it seemed no more than five minutes later when he suddenly reappeared, breathless and shaking. He and Bill both stripped off their jackets, rolled up their sleeves and gave themselves a shot of heroin. Bill relaxed, and I got a sort of contact high, I guess, because I relaxed too. It was the first time I had ever seen anybody do that, and I was fascinated, the way a passing driver is fascinated by a car crash.

  I think it’s important to say that William Burroughs did not mean to glamorize heroin or encourage its use. He was in the vanguard of the revolution of the ’60s, in which drugs played a large part. He tried to educate people about the deadly effects of heroin, but because he was one of those curious inventions of the post–World War II period, an artist more famous for his image and ideas than for his work, many people think he is, by example, giving them permission to take heroin. Inasmuch as Burroughs’ credo was, “Nothing is true. Everything is permitted,” he is or was, but that permission has to be seen in perspective of how and when it was originally given. When Burroughs’ works hit the West like a series of time bombs and ripped up the basic precepts of Western civilization in the 1960s, the us-against-them conflict was so intense that people were enormously affected by Burroughs and his avant-garde writings, because of his and their strength. At the time, overstatement was often needed to make an impact.

  Read now, twenty, thirty, forty years after they were first published, Burroughs’ works emerge, in the recently published marvelous and mind-blowing Word Virus: A William Burroughs Reader (Grove Press, 1999), as just about perfectly on time: You can read this book without fearing it will do you any harm. On the contrary, a person who reads Word Virus completely and really takes it in will be way ahead of the game. For, as Ann Douglas points out in her rocking introduction, “Burroughs’ ambition amounted to nothing less than an attempt to uproot and transform Western concepts of personhood and language, if not personhood and language themselves, to produce a new emancipation proclamation for the twenty-first century.”

  “And to what extent did he succeed?” Burroughs asked himself in The Western Lands, the final novel in his trilogy that began with Cities of the Red Night and continued with The Place of Dead Roads. And he answered his own question: “Even to envisage success on this scale is a victory. A victory from which others may envision further.” And then he quoted this stanza:

  There is not a breathing of the common wind

  that will forget thee;

  Thy friends are exaltations, agonies and love,

  And man's unconquerable mind.

  3

  The Death Of Allen Ginsberg By Rosebud Feliu-Pettet

  April 4 Friday

  Evening – Peter Hale calls and asks me to come quickly, Allen is in a coma, dying. Pull on my sneakers and taxi down, trying to keep calm breathing, trying to arrive in state of peace. 15 minutes after Pete’s call he opens the door to the loft and I go in to join those already gathered. I went and embraced big Peter – Orlovsky – and Eugene, Allen’s brother. About 20 friends talking in low voices, looking lost, comforting each other.

  After being diagnosed with inoperable liver cancer the previous Friday at Beth Israel Hospital, Allen had been told he had maybe 2–5 months to live. When I heard the news, for some reason I felt strongly that it would not be that long – I felt that he would go very soon. He had come back home Wednesday in good spirits, organizing things as ever, making plans for the coming days. But someone (I forget who, perhaps it was Bob) had said Allen personally felt that he had very little time left. A month or two, he thought. So Wednesday he was busy, writing and making phonecalls to his friends all over the world, saying goodbye. Amiri Baraka said Allen called him and said “I’m dying, do you need any money?”

  But Thursday he was much weaker, he could hobble from bed to chair only with difficulty. There was a phonecall from Italy, in the middle of it Allen begins to vomit, throws up right there on the phone! “Funny,” he says, “never done that before.” Said he was very tired and wanted to go to sleep. He fell asleep and later that night had a seizure and slipped into a coma. He was alone.

  In the morning Bob Rosenthal discovered him unconscious and called the Hospice doctor who came and told him that Allen had most likely had a stroke and had hours to live. The task of notifying family and friends began.

  Everyone had feared that as word spread, there would be a huge throng appearing at the loft, but that wasn’t the case. People came and went quietly during the afternoon. Bob, Pete Hale, Bill Morgan and Kaye Wright, the office staff were busy constantly at the phones making and receiving calls. Shelly Rosenthal and Rani Singh helping with everything that needed doing. Eugene and several nieces and nephews of Allen’s consoling each other. Larry Rivers down from his apartment upstairs, wandering around forlornly in his pink, white and blue striped pajamas. George and Anna Condo and their little girl. Francesco and Alba Clemente, beloved friends of Allen’s. Patti Smith sitting in tears with Oliver Ray and her young daughter. Bob and Shelly’s sons Aliah and Isaac. Mark Israel and David Greenberg, two of Allen’s young boyfriends. Philip Glass and June Leaf. Robert Frank. Simon Pettet. Andrew Wylie. Roy Lichtenstein. Steven Bornstein, who had flown up from Florida. A few others, I don’t remember who all was there. I went to the back of the loft and Raymond Foye stood looking pale and so sad. I told him he must be very blessed, he had spent so much time giving support and love to the dying – Henry Geldzahler, Huncke, Harry Smith. “Yes, but this is the big one, the hardest,” he said. Allen lay in a narrow hospital bed beside the windows overlooking 14th Street. There were two almost invisible tubes coming out of his nose, attached to a portable small oxygen tank on the floor. His head was raised up on a couple of big striped pillows and he looked tiny and frail, thin arms with bruised veins from hospital tests sticking out from his Jewel Heart T-shirt. Head to the side, slight shadows under the eyes. I had walked through the loft, people whispering greetings, hugging, telling me all that had happened. But still not really prepared for the sight of him. The windows were open, curtains waving softly. His breathing was deep, slow, very labored, a snoring sound. “Hey, Allen, wake up!”

  Joel Gaidemak, his cousin and doctor, was there constantly, and a young lady nurse sat in the corner reading, occasionally getting up to check on heart and pulse, or administer morphine for congestion. Gelek Rinpoche said he thought Allen might last the night. Joel didn’t think so.

  A few chairs were set up nearby, and there was the big white leather Salvation Army sofa of which he was so proud. People sat, or at intervals went to sit beside the bed and hold his hand or whisper to him and kiss him, his hand or cheek or head. An altar had been set up along one side of the loft and Gelek Rinpoche and the other monks sat chanting and praying, the sound so soothing constantly in the background, bells tinkling. A faint scent of flowers and incense hung in the air.

  I had a little throw-away Woolworths camera, and Gregory Corso asked me to take a picture of him with Allen. He knelt beside the cot and placed his arm over Allen “like that picture, or statue, of Adonais, right?”

  There was a medical chart, a picture of the human skeleton, hanging over the bed. Bob said Allen had put it there, half as a joke, half as a reminder. And Allen’s beautiful picture of Whitman (that had hung in the kitchen on 12th Street) gazing down from the wall at the other dear bearded poet in the bed below. As it got late, many went home to try and catch a little sleep. It was around 11. Bob and Pete were just playing it by ear, deciding that anyone who wanted to stay would find a place, on the floor if necessary. Peter Orlovsky was taking photos and I felt a little uncomfortable, the idea of taking pictures at this time, but I figured, hey, if it was you, Allen’d be the first one through the door camera in hand! Eventually, Eugene leaned over, held Allen’s hand, whispered “Goodbye little Allen. Goodbye little Allen. I’ll be back later. See you soon.” He kissed him and left. And Gregory – Gregorio! – too, telling us to call him at once if there was any cha
nge.

  Joel had said that there was no way to know how long it would be, minutes or hours, surely not days. I had felt from the minute I saw Allen there that it would be very soon. I sat at the foot of the bed where I had spent the last few hours, holding his feet, rubbing them gently from time to time. An occasional cigarette break – the little guest bedroom by the office area was set up as the smoker’s lounge. Bob and Pete and Bill were as strong and remarkable as ever, supporting everyone, keeping a sense of humor, and constantly dealing with the dozens of phonecalls, faxes, and the visitors as they came and went. They’d had a few days for the news to sink in, but they were dealing with – literally – hundreds of people over the phone or in person who had just found out and were in the first stages of stunned, disbelieving grief.

  I had remained at the bedside and it was now after midnight. I could not believe he still hung on, the breathing so difficult, the lungs slowly filling with fluid. Labored breathing (gulps for air – like those gulps he’d made when he was singing – almost like he was reciting poetry in his sleep). Those who had been there all day were exhausted. It was down to a few now. Bob and Pete and Bill Morgan. Peter Orlovsky so bravely dealing with his pain, strong Beverly holding his hand. David and Mark. Patti and Oliver, there together all day trying to be brave and sometimes giving way to red-eyed tears. Simon Pettet sitting beside me for hours.

  Allen’s feet felt cooler than they had been earlier. I sat remembering the 33 years I’d known him, lived with him, my second father.

  And still he breathed, but softer now.

  Around 2 o’clock, everyone decided to try and get some rest. Bob and Joel lay down in Allen’s big bed near the cot where he lay, everyone found a sofa or somewhere to stretch out.

  Simon and I sat, just watching his face. Everyone was amazed at how beautiful he looked – all lines of stress and age smoothed – he looked patriarchal and strong. I had never seen him so handsome. The funny looking little boy had grown into this most wonderful looking man. (He would have encouraged photos if he had known how wonderful he looked!) But so tiny! He seemed as fragile as a baby in his little T-shirt.

  The loft was very quiet. Most were resting, half-asleep. Suddenly Allen began to shake, a small convulsion wracked his body. I called out, and Joel and Bob sat up and hurried over. I called louder, and everyone else came running. It was about 2:15. Joel examined him, pulse, etc., and said that his vital signs were considerably slower, he had had another seizure. The breathing went on, weaker. His feet were cooler. Everyone sat or stood close to the little bed. The loft was dim and shadowy; only a single low light shining down on him. It lent a surreal, almost theatrical look to the corner of the loft. Peter Orlovsky bent over and kissed his head, saying, “Goodbye Darling.”

  And then suddenly a remarkable thing happened. A tremor went through him, and slowly, impossibly, he began to raise his head. He weakly rose until he was sitting almost upright, and his left arm lifted and extended. Then his eyes opened very slowly and very wide. The pupils were wildly dilated. I thought I saw a look of confusion or bewilderment. His head began to turn very slowly and his eyes seemed to glance around him, gazing on each of us in turn. His eyes were so deep, so dark, but Bob said that they were empty of sight. His mouth opened, and we all heard as he seemed to struggle to say something, but only a soft low sound, a weak “Aaah”, came from him. Then his eyes began to close and he sank back onto the pillow. The eyes shut fully. He continued, then, to struggle through a few more gasping breaths, and his mouth fell open in an O. Joel said that these were the final moments, the O of the mouth the sign of approaching death. I still continued to stroke his feet and thin little legs, but the Tibetan Buddhist tradition is to not touch the body after death, so I kissed him one final time and then let go.

  At 2:39, Joel checked for vital signs and announced that the heart, so much stronger than anyone knew, had stopped beating. A painless and gentle death. The thin blue sheet was pulled up to his chin, and Peter Hale brought over a tiny cup and spoon, and placed a few drops of a dark liquid between Allen’s lips. It was part of the Buddhist ritual – the ‘last food’. Bob put his hand over Allen’s eyes and said the Sh’ma. We all sat quietly in the dim light, each with our own thoughts, saying goodbye.

  © 1997. Rosebud Feliu-Pettet.

  I attended this Gold Medal dinner with Burroughs and Grauerholz. I was the only person there who had a tape recorder and taped the after dinner speeches. What follows is the heart of them.

  4

  National Arts Club Literary Award Dinner For Allen Ginsberg

  On February 22nd 1979 the National Arts Club held a banquet to award their gold medal in literature to Allen Ginsberg. Previous recipients had included: Louis Achincloss, W. H. Auden, S. J. Perelman, Tennessee Williams, Saul Bellow and Norman Mailer. The following remarks are extracts from speeches by participants at the banquet who sat at the table of honor. The evening began with Ted Berrigan, master of ceremonies, reading a telegram sent for Allen.

  TED BERRIGAN: “Congratulations. Continue to fearlessly beat the drum and play the harmonium of Dharma. With great affection Vajra Karaya the Venerable Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and Ösel Tenzing Vajra Hatu.” (Berrigan continues, speaking now for himself) Over the years Allen has continued to be a great inspiration to me. I’ve seen his generosity not only to me but to many others. His concern, his care, his ability to be interested in you, when speaking to you, most of all his great intelligence in his personal practices. I think that’s what impresses me most about Allen. I’ve taken him as a great moral guide in many ways … I think I should turn the microphone over to men who can speak to you about Allen perhaps from a more intimate vantage point. The Commissioner of Cultural Affairs for the City of New York – Mr. Henry Geldzahler.

  HENRY GELDZAHLER: Allen announced to the world that you can be homosexual and inclusive. He is a poet whose truths are described so feelingly and tellingly that their particularities become universal. A poet of human sexuality. We all feel as we read Allen Ginsberg what Allen Ginsberg feels. It is easier and more palatable for me to be an American and to be a homosexual because Allen has stood and spoken out. His eloquence allows us to share his victory … In my name, and in the name of the City of New York – Thank you Allen Ginsberg!

  BERRIGAN: The next speaker is John Ashbery. My friends and I used to joke that you could take a coin and flip it and it’d come up heads John Ashbery, tails Allen Ginsberg.

  JOHN ASHBERY: I think Allen was one of the first poets who was able to make a living from poetry – not from publishing it because he’s always published with small presses – but from reading it, which is indeed the only way a poet can make a living these days. And he is definitely the first poet who made a living from his poetry and gave most of what he’s made to other people. He has devoted incredible amounts of time to giving himself to the things that he believes in. When I was at Naropa I was amazed that all day long poets would come, knock on his door and ask advice about their poetry – how they should get it published and this and that – and he spent (it seemed to me) almost twenty-four hours a day helping these people. And that is something that not too many people are aware of. It’s something I would very much like to do myself, but I just don’t have the time … I don’t think the establishment is embracing him but I think his embrace has eventually included it. I think he’s changed the role of the poet in America and now everybody experiences poetry. I think it’s much closer to us now than it was twenty years ago. And I think that is due not only to his poetry but to his truly exemplary way of living, which is a lesson to me, and for many of you here, and for many people in America.

  BERRIGAN: I wouldn’t want any of you to get the impression that Allen’s not (just like the rest of us) subject to incredible fits of rage, tantrums, impatience, desire to merge, other normal feelings that go between people who love one another … Allen Ginsberg has been very specific in crediting William Burroughs with being his mentor and teacher in his early years. H
is long time friend and a man who serves him literally and constantly as an information channel …

  WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS: To my way of thinking the function of art is to make us aware of what we know and don’t know that we know. Now Allen’s openness, his writings and his outspoken attitude towards sex and drugs, were once thoroughly disreputable and unacceptable, and now have become acceptable and in fact respectable. And this occasion is an indication of this shift of opinion. You remember that it was once extremely unacceptable to say that the earth is round. I think that this shift whereby original thinkers are accepted is very beneficial both to those who accept them and to the thinkers themselves. Somerset Maugham said the greatest asset any writer can have is longevity, and I think that in another ten or fifteen or twenty years Allen may be a very deserving recipient of the Nobel Prize.

  BERRIGAN: Norman Mailer is the only person at the speakers’ table who was famous before Allen … I think my mother first gave me a copy of The Naked and the Dead and said, “I don’t know if a good mother would give this to a son to read, but I really liked it Ted, and I think you’ll like it too …”

  NORMAN MAILER: I don’t truly have in my own mind credentials of a normal order for introducing Allen Ginsberg. Except, as I sat here wondering what these prefatory remarks might come to, it occurred to me that mountains tend to be immensely self-centred. They’re concerned with their own works. They try to notice how a particular plot, how a particular patch of forest, is going down below them, and how the snow fields are doing this year, and they feel the profound stir of the earth beneath their seat and they’re tremendously concerned with themselves. They pay a great deal of attention to themselves. If a mountain can, it takes its pulse. Now weather is quite obviously bad at the summit and mountains rarely have anything to see. Occasionally there is a little clearing and the mountain looks out two hundred miles and “My God!” Anapurna says, “there’s old Everest!” and it says, “You know, Everest is really impressive when you get down to it.”