A drunken night in my house with a boy, San Francisco: I lay asleep: darkness: I went back to Mexico City and saw Joan Burroughs leaning forward in a garden chair, arms on her knees. She studied me with clear eyes and downcast smile, her face restored to a fine beauty tequila and salt had made strange before the bullet in her brow. We talked of life since then. Well, what's Burroughs doing now? Bill on Earth, he's in North Africa. Oh, and Kerouac? Jack still junps with the same beat genius as before, notebooks filled with Buddha. I hope he makes it, she laughed. Is Huncke still in the can? No, last time I saw him on Times Square. And how is Kenney? Married, drunk ad golden in the East. You? New loves in the West-- Then I knew she was a dream: and questioned her --Joan, what kind of knowledge have the dead? can you still love your mortal acquaintances? What do you remember of us? She
faded in front of me--The next instant I saw her rain-stained tombstone rear an illegible epitaph under the gnarled branch of a small tree in the wild grass of an unvisited garden in Mexico.
“If you stick a knife in my back nine inches and pull it out six inches, that’s not progress. If you pull it all the way out, that’s not progress. The progress comes from healing the wound that the blow made. They haven’t even begun to pull the knife out. They won’t even admit the knife is there.”
(Or, as Tracy Jordan says, “Y’all are a bunch of racists!”)