I supplicate your sordid
I had the privilege of meeting Burroughs at the Naropa Institute in the early 90’s, I recall him being very stoic, and indeed no one could prevent him from smoking inside. He smoked slowly intentionally, and the oddly disturbing and reverent imprint of him, never left my mind.
I also had the further privilege of taking a class during the Naropa Summer Writing Program with Allen Ginsberg. All of the living Beats would, and still convene there annually. I remember the first time rising to read my poetry in front of him, and he being a tad misogynistic, asked me firmly to sit down, but I remained standing to read.
He gave me one transmission that always stayed, but I tend to not follow, as my process is to write exactly the words as they appear with almost no editing.
He said that that a poet should use words that communicate feeling that appeals to our direct, consensual senses: sight, sound, taste, touch. He told me to refrain from interpretative words like the base, subjective word “beautiful.” He suggested rather to evoke the experience of beauty as a wordsmith, “the yellow of morning forsythia bursts forth,” the scent of Christmas cinnamon, pine and solitude.”
Thank you, to my rawly human, base and indeed beautiful, lineage fathers, may the wisdom muse forever imbue my soul.