Bob Dylan said writing the fifty-four verses in the first
draft of Like a Rolling Stone was like vomiting.
Henry Miller said he couldn't shut the words off, so he
wrote them down. I think that was Sexus, Nexus, and Plexus - three volumes, thousands of pages, god knows how many words.
Phil Ochs said he couldn't get the words to come. He killed
himself.
I started the morning reading "The Lion," by Allen
Ginsberg. This is what it led to,
and except for crossing out a few words it's un-edited:
SPONTANEOUS MAUDLIN GINSBERG
One of these mornings you're going to wake up cold with not
enough covers to roll you back to sleep
One of these mornings you're going to wake up tired with
never enough sleep never enough sleep
One of these mornings you're going to wake up hungry and old
Mother Hubbard will be blowing on a thigh bone trumpet
One of these mornings you're going to wake up lonesome with
no one around but the stubbled reflection of the self you need glasses to see
One of these mornings you're going to wake up with a stomach
as big as a baby elephant - you've got a lot of nerve, Ganesha
One of these mornings you're going to wake up bleeding from
every hole
One of these mornings you're going to wake up with stars in
your eyes and concrete in your head
One of these mornings you're going to wake up spouting
gibberish your dog actually understands
One of these mornings you're going to wake up to a bowl of
cold cherries wet and slick, and a glass of cold water, and you're going to
enjoy the fuck out of them
One of these mornings you're going to wake up dead, and
won't that be the last available straw…
Get outta here, Allen, I'm up, already.
