MY DINNER WITH ALLEN GINSBERG

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked…."

—Allen Ginsberg


Dylan: John, I want to thank you for sharing your
memories of Allen Ginsberg. I have to honestly fess up
that you are the first person I've ever chatted with that
actually knew such a major American poet. "Howl" is the
first poem I ever memorized. And I find it just as powerful
today, as I did when I was fourteen years old. And that
was almost three decades ago!

John: Okay, I want to say right off the bat that I did
not know Allen all that well. In truth, it was my
lover (Marius Bewley—the very well known literary
critic and writer) that received the call from Allen
inviting us to dinner. Frankly, I was so involved in
my own career as an illustrator of children's books,
that I would not even have remembered the dinner.
Except for the unfortunate fact that Allen served
lobster. And rather raw: mine actually crawled off my
plate, and plopped onto the floor.

Dylan: Oh my god. That is too funny! So what did you
do?

John: Well, since Marius had already asked Allen if he
could have an omelette instead of lobster, I politely
requested an omelette too.

Dylan: And what happened to the lobster that crawled
off the table?

John: Allen simply picked it up off the floor, then
tossed it back in the steaming pot on the stove, and
let it cook for another ten minutes or so. Then he ate
all three lobsters. While Marius and I enjoyed our
omelettes. I remember they were very good. And so was
the wine. Which is perhaps why the scene seemed less
surreal at the time than it actually was.

Dylan: Surreal is such a good word to describe such a
dinner! Had Allen already published HOWL when you met
him?

John: I think he was still writing it. This was in the
very early 1950s. When he was living in the modest
apartment on East 7th Street he occupied for many,
many years. There's a famous photograph of Kerouac on
the fire escape. Also, one of Allen on the roof. It
was a nice apartment. Not enormous. But he kept it
neat. And had an impressive number of books. Burroughs
stayed there for awhile. When he was looking for a
place of his own. It's never been easy finding a
decent apartment in New York. Especially when you're a
starving poet or artist.

Dylan: So how did your lover first meet Allen?

John: Marius liked poets and writers. And so
they liked him. Plus he had published several
well-known books of his own: THE COMPLEX FATE (with
an introduction by F. R. Leavis). THE ECCENTRIC DESIGN.
And MASKS AND MIRRORS (dedicated to Peggy Guggenheim).

Dylan: I've heard of F.R. Leavis. He's one of those
great literary critic legends I've always been so in
awe of. He certainly had some very strong and original
opinions about literature. Which he frequently
published.

John: Yes, he did not agree with what Marius wrote
about Henry James. But that's an enormous part of
being a literary critic. They often battle among their
own. Otherwise, it all would become too predictable
and boring.

Dylan: I agree. So what's your lasting impression of
Allen Ginsberg? The memory you will never forget. Did
anything about him really stand out? Even before he
published HOWL?

John: You know, I always thought Allen should have
been a Rabbi. He had this enormously sweet quality
about him. I was more impressed by his sweetness, than
anything he said about art or literature. But I was so
very young then. And engaged in my own literary
career. Yet I do remember how sweet he was. So humble
and unpretentious. Which is unusual in one so gifted
and young.


Interview © 2008 by Dylan Mitchell and John MacKenzie

PEARL

He was just another ragged homeless man on a park bench to most of the employed (and housed) people hurrying past him. Staring at his feet. His downcast eyes giving him the appearance of a sleeper. But he was actually quite awake. I stopped in my tracks, and he suddenly lifted his white bearded face. Then he greeted me with a grin.

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose," he said, in a clear low voice. "A whiskey-voiced lady blues singer made those words famous. But a drunken poet had to write them down on a napkin first." Then he returned to staring at his worn and tattered shoes for a moment, until his wise blue eyes gradually closed. He had nothing more to say, and was done with me. I was being dismissed.

I just stood there. Stunned and speechless.

Essay © 2008 by Dylan Mitchell

LAST CALL

What good is a phone?
In cold England or the States?
Just ask Sylvia.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

THE STRAIGHT LIARS' CLUB (FOR MATTHEW SHEPARD)

Matthew Shepard: 1976 - 1998

Have you ever been the victim of a Hate Crime? I don't mean the verbal sort (getting called a faggot). Sadly, this has happened to plenty of gay men. I'm talking about when your life is in danger - because several straight dudes have decided they want to physically bash a queer.
This happened to me when I was 23. I'd just left a gay bar, and all of a sudden I noticed six dudes (they were drinking in a vacant lot across the street) were glaring at me. They started calling me a faggot, as they followed me to a bus stop I was headed towards.

Suddenly a beer bottle was thrown at me, and since there was no bus in sight (it was close to 1 A.M.), I figured I'd better make a run for it.  They continued to throw bottles at me (and call me names), as they chased me for at least four blocks. One of the bottles struck my head, and blood began to drip all over the front of my shirt.

I decided to run down an alley, and noticed an open back gate to somebody's house. I dashed into the yard, and hid under the porch. I could still hear the dudes shouting in the distance, and I was certain I was going to die. I was trembling and dizzy as hell, but managed to hide under the porch until dawn. I figured it was finally safe to come out, so I left the yard, walked to the bus stop I'd originally been headed towards, and sat on a bench. It took the bus ten minutes to arrive, and it seemed like the longest ten minutes of my life. But once I was on the bus, I felt like I just might survive. At least I was no longer alone. I did not report what had happened to me, and I still have a small scar as a reminder. I never went back to that bar again.

I wonder how often this sort of thing happens, and goes unreported? Since I never got a good look at any of the crazy dudes, I felt it would be pointless to go to the police. I was just grateful to have survived. But I suspect this kind of hate crime is more common than is known. I wrote a poem about Matthew Shepard, after I found this haunting photograph of him on the internet. I don't know who the photographer is, but I am forever grateful. Matthew seems at peace with the world. Plus he's still wearing his shoes. This fact becomes heartbreaking, because Matthew would ultimately be robbed of his shoes and his young life.


THE STRAIGHT LIARS' CLUB

Alone, dying, and tied to a fence
Robbed of your money and life
By your new gay friends
Not a husband, but a wife

Is what they dreamed of most
So they tricked you into the truck
Beat you bloody with a gun
Was it just a bit of bad luck

That made you trust a pair of
Straight liars? Or was it
Something more like love
Their deceptive smiles and

Macho ways: just a trap to
Lure you to your death
They hated gays, and liked to
Brag - long after your final breath

They seemed so earnest and friendly
What did you have to lose
Your mother and father and future
Your pair of expensive shoes

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

SOMEBODY’S SCREAMING

Walking to Safeway
Vincent's moon and stars above
Somebody's screaming

Haiku © 2010 by Dylan Mitchell

#1 (from 100 Men I Have Slept With)

Chicago. Summer of 1980.
I was just an 18 year old kid
from the poor side of town.
I knew I was different, but
didn't know where to go to
find other people like myself.
The only queers I knew anything
about were the rich and famous
ones on television: Baby-voiced
Truman Capote. And maybe rugged
Rock Hudson (didn't he like to knit?).

So I got sick of being so lonely,
and when I heard about a gay
movie (CRUISING)
being shown at a theatre
downtown, I put on my finest jeans
and button-down shirt, and took
a bus all the way to State St.
I remember I was afraid of so many
queers in one place. It was a bit
overwhelming. And so many were
conspicuous and proud! While I'd
always felt ashamed of what I
was. And tried to hide in some
dark closet.

I don't recall much of the flick. That's
how nervous I was. And when
somebody suddenly put his large hand
on my innocent knee in the dark, I
jumped up to flee to the Men's room,
and was splashing cold water on my
face when Tom suddenly smiled at
me in the bright mirror: Thirty-something.
Long brown hair. Straight white teeth.
Dorky glasses. But with a jock's hard body.
He actually asked me if I needed a hero?

I followed him out of the theatre, and into
his car. He lived alone in an expensive
condo. After three glasses of white wine,
and a rough kiss on his couch, he suggested
I join him upstairs. In his huge bed beneath
a window of stars. I asked him if we
should at least close the curtains?
But why? He said. Then he kissed me
again, in front of the naked window. And
put my hand on his hard cock, as he
started to unbutton my impossible shirt.
And the straight world outside couldn't
stop me anymore.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

DEATH BECOMES THEM

That's the title of the book I finished reading late last night. It's all about famous and infamous suicides. Everybody's in it: Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Vincent van Gogh, Diane Arbus, Hemingway, Freud, Hitler, Kurt Cobain, Elliott Smith, Abbie Hoffman, etc. The author is Alix Strauss.

I know a depressed person should not be reading books about suicide. However, the book is wickedly morbid and oddly witty. One might even call it entertaining. How the author managed it, I'll never know. The woman is a genius. So I am not entirely to blame.

In truth, I'm grateful to have discovered this book. Suicide is a subject I have always been deeply curious about. However, I'm not terribly fond of academic books (I dropped out of college for very good reasons). Apart from The Savage God (a classic study of suicide, written by A. Alvarez), I was bored to death by everything I got my greedy little hands on. How can suicide ever be boring? That's what I wanted to know.

But now we have: DEATH BECOMES THEM. And it's an insightful page turner. I was hooked from the start. If you are curious about famous and notorious suicides, then this book deserves a long peek.

Resume

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

- Dorothy Parker

Nonfiction
Harper Paperback Original, 2009

Reader Rating: 9 /10

Review © 2011 by Dylan Mitchell