anneyhall:

Beatnik Breakfast in New York, late 1950s. L-R: Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso (back of head), David Amram, Allen Ginsburg

Man I love local diners. I feel connected to the best parts of the twentieth century when I eat in a diner.
I drink coffee in a diner. Eat pie in a diner. Eat (half my) eggs in a diner. I feel like thumbing it into the distance after I leave a diner. When I’m in a diner I’m my father or grandfather when they were young. I’m Sal Paradise, I’m River Phoenix, I’m Hud. I’m lost. I’m found. I’m happy. I’m sad. I want to read in a diner or get lost in a conversation for far too long (never long enough). It’s alright to fidget in a diner. To let your eyes wander. I love a diner with a jukebox, especially if in my booth. I love watching short-order cooks perform their trapeze act in a diner.
Diners are best when you’re feeling greasy.
I’ve never smoked in a diner. Never been drunk in a diner. Never been arrested in a diner. The night is ever young in a diner.

anneyhall:

Beatnik Breakfast in New York, late 1950s. L-R: Larry Rivers, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso (back of head), David Amram, Allen Ginsburg

Man I love local diners. I feel connected to the best parts of the twentieth century when I eat in a diner.

I drink coffee in a diner. Eat pie in a diner. Eat (half my) eggs in a diner. I feel like thumbing it into the distance after I leave a diner. When I’m in a diner I’m my father or grandfather when they were young. I’m Sal Paradise, I’m River Phoenix, I’m Hud. I’m lost. I’m found. I’m happy. I’m sad. I want to read in a diner or get lost in a conversation for far too long (never long enough). It’s alright to fidget in a diner. To let your eyes wander. I love a diner with a jukebox, especially if in my booth. I love watching short-order cooks perform their trapeze act in a diner.

Diners are best when you’re feeling greasy.

I’ve never smoked in a diner. Never been drunk in a diner. Never been arrested in a diner. The night is ever young in a diner.

Too Much of Nothingby Bob Dylan, 1967 
Now, too much of nothingCan make a man feel ill at easeOne man’s temper might riseWhile another man’s temper might freezeIn the day of confessionWe cannot mock a soulOh, when there’s too much of nothingNo one has control
Say hello to ValerieSay hello to VivianSend them all my salaryOn the waters of oblivion
Too much of nothingCan make a man abuse a kingHe can walk the streets and boast like mostBut he wouldn’t know a thingNow, it’s all been done beforeIt’s all been written in the bookBut when there’s too much of nothingNobody should look
Say hello to ValerieSay hello to VivianSend them all my salaryOn the waters of oblivion
Too much of nothingCan turn a man into a liarIt can cause one man to sleep on nailsAnd another man to eat fireEv’rybody’s doin’ somethin’I heard it in a dreamBut when there’s too much of nothingIt just makes a fella mean
Say hello to ValerieSay hello to VivianSend them all my salaryOn the waters of oblivion
Photo: Robbie Robertson, Michael McClure, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, 1965.
(photo via anneyhall : magnificentruin)

Too Much of Nothing
by Bob Dylan, 1967 

Now, too much of nothing
Can make a man feel ill at ease
One man’s temper might rise
While another man’s temper might freeze
In the day of confession
We cannot mock a soul
Oh, when there’s too much of nothing
No one has control

Say hello to Valerie
Say hello to Vivian
Send them all my salary
On the waters of oblivion

Too much of nothing
Can make a man abuse a king
He can walk the streets and boast like most
But he wouldn’t know a thing
Now, it’s all been done before
It’s all been written in the book
But when there’s too much of nothing
Nobody should look

Say hello to Valerie
Say hello to Vivian
Send them all my salary
On the waters of oblivion

Too much of nothing
Can turn a man into a liar
It can cause one man to sleep on nails
And another man to eat fire
Ev’rybody’s doin’ somethin’
I heard it in a dream
But when there’s too much of nothing
It just makes a fella mean

Say hello to Valerie
Say hello to Vivian
Send them all my salary
On the waters of oblivion

Photo: Robbie Robertson, Michael McClure, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, 1965.

(photo via anneyhall : magnificentruin)

Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too. And after all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American poets, are better than the movies. As for measure and other technical apparatus, that’s just common sense: if you’re going to buy a pair of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. There’s nothing metaphysical about it. Unless, of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what you’re experiencing is “yearning.”
— Frank O’Hara 
(text via insomnius)

Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too. And after all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American poets, are better than the movies. As for measure and other technical apparatus, that’s just common sense: if you’re going to buy a pair of pants you want them to be tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. There’s nothing metaphysical about it. Unless, of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what you’re experiencing is “yearning.”

— Frank O’Hara 

(text via insomnius)

Travel Lightby Nano SakakiPleasing smell ofSea urchins and sweet potatoesAround the burning driftwoods.     Stormy night of springIn east China seaOn the beach of a tiny islandI find myselfSitting in a caveWith a hundred human skullsWho died by the smallpoxThree Hundred years agoOne by oneI listen to their storiesAll night long.As the rosy dawn streaksOne of them mumbles                 ”To travel light                 why don’t you leave your skull here?”

Travel Light
by Nano Sakaki

Pleasing smell of
Sea urchins and sweet potatoes
Around the burning driftwoods.
     Stormy night of spring

In east China sea
On the beach of a tiny island
I find myself
Sitting in a cave
With a hundred human skulls
Who died by the smallpox
Three Hundred years ago

One by one
I listen to their stories
All night long.

As the rosy dawn streaks
One of them mumbles

                 ”To travel light
                 why don’t you leave your skull here?”