Re: Peter Orlovsky

On Fri, 9 Feb 2024 22:41:02 +0000, General-Zod wrote:

Will Dockery wrote:
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General-Zod wrote:

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Will Dockery wrote:

poet_of_franklinton wrote:

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Does anyone know of the current whereabouts and condition of Allen
Ginsberg's longtime companion, Peter Orlovsky? I have heard that the
San Francisco Public Library is trying to organize a tribute honoring
the 50-year anniversary of the Six Gallery reading when Ginsberg first
read "Howl." (The date is 7 October--the day after my daughter Susan
turns 8, BTW!) The organizers are trying to find people who were
there. Snyder and McClure are the only readers still living, but
Orlovsky's presence would mean that Ginsberg would be there in spirit.
Any idea where to locate Peter Orlovsky, or what his health (mental
and/or physical) might be?

I haven't thought much about Orlovsky in a long time, the last time
probably at Ginsberg's death when I read a piece by him, so I Googled
[type in "Peter Orlovsky" for a ton of links] and didn't see any
mention of him having passed, so apparently not. Gotta be pretty old,
though, of course.
A picture from the glory days of the first Beat generation:
http://boppin.com/images/peter.jpg
And a couple of poems, in his "unique" spelling, that are pretty good,
I think:
FRIST POEM
A rainbow comes pouring into my window, I am electrified.
Songs burst from my breast, all my crying stops, mistory fills
the air.
I look for my shues under my bed.
A fat colored woman becomes my mother.
I have no false teeth yet. Suddenly ten children sit on my lap.
I grow a beard in one day.
I drink a hole bottle of wine with my eyes shut.
I draw on paper and I feel I am two again. I want everybody to
talk to me.
I empty the garbage on the tabol.
I invite thousands of bottles into my room, June bugs I call them.
I use the typewritter as my pillow.
A spoon becomes a fork before my eyes.
Bums give all their money to me.
All I need is a mirror for the rest of my life.
My frist five years I lived in chicken coups with not enough
bacon.
My mother showed her witch face in the night and told stories of
blue beards.
My dreams lifted me right out of my bed.
I dreamt I jumped into the nozzle of a gun to fight it out with a
bullet.
I met Kafka and he jumped over a building to get away from me.
My body turned into sugar, poured into tea I found the meaning
of life
All I needed was ink to be a black boy.
I walk on the street looking for eyes that will caress my face.
I sang in the elevators believing I was going to heaven.
I got off at the 86th floor, walked down the corridor looking for
fresh butts.
My comes turns into a silver dollar on the bed.
I look out the window and see nobody, I go down to the street,
look up at my window and see nobody.
So I talk to the fire hydrant, asking "Do you have bigger tears
then I do?"
Nobody around, I piss anywhere.
My Gabriel horns, my Gabriel horns: unfold the cheerfulies,
my gay jubilation.
Nov. 24th, 1957, Paris
SECOND POEM
Morning again, nothing has to be done,
maybe buy a piano or make fudge.
At least clean the room up for sure like my farther I've done flick
the ashes & butts over the bed side on the floor.
But frist of all wipe my glasses and drink the water
to clean the smelly mouth.
A nock on the door, a cat walks in, behind her the Zoo's baby
elephant demanding fresh pancakes-I cant stand these
hallucinations aney more.
Time for another cigerette and then let the curtains rise, then I
knowtice the dirt makes a road to the garbage pan
No ice box so a dried up grapefruit.
Is there any one saintly thing I can do to my room, paint it pink
maybe or instal an elevator from the bed to the floor,
maybe take a bath on the bed?
Whats the use of liveing if I cant make paradise in my own
room-land?
For this drop of time upon my eyes
like the endurance of a red star on a cigerate
makes me feel life splits faster than sissors.
I know if I could shave myself the bugs around my face would
disappear forever.
The holes in my shues are only temporary, I understand that.
My rug is dirty but whose that isent?
There comes a time in life when everybody must take a piss in
the sink -here let me paint the window black for a minute.
Thro a plate & brake it out of naughtiness-or maybe just
innocently accidentally drop it wile walking around the
tabol.
Before the mirror I look like a sahara desert gost,
or on the bed I resemble a crying mummey hollaring for air,
or on the tabol I feel like Napoleon.
But now for the main task of the day - wash my underwear -
two months abused - what would the ants say about that?
How can I wash my clothes - why I'd, I'd, I'd be a woman if I did
that.
No, I'd rather polish my sneakers than that and as for the floor
its more creative to paint it then clean it up.
As for the dishes I can do that for I am thinking of getting a job in
a lunchenette.
My life and my room are like two huge bugs following me
around the globe.
Thank god I have an innocent eye for nature.
I was born to remember a song about love - on a hill a butterfly
makes a cup that I drink from, walking over a bridge of
flowers.
Dec. 27th, 1957, Paris
--
Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
<http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
"Autograph Of Zorro" {digital video}:
<http://www.lulu.com/items/86000/86128/1/preview/45-Zorro.mpg>
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>

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The photo I am basing my portrait of Peter Orlovsky on:

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https://www.ebay.com/itm/374305699432

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Good morning, interesting.

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Yo... agreed...

Hello again, Zod, interesting work from Peter Orloveki.