chapter FIVE: Howl Actually, it’s my first job.
I like this job.
Dishwasher.
The silence allows me to think about the thing I love most. Poetry.
I don’t talk to anybody. I just wash.
Manhattan.
Five in the morning. The city has insomnia.
A hooker shouts.
I’m the only one who hears. Hey you! Motherfucker!
A broken, confused voice that seems to dance in the air.
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Buenos aires.
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Bar Florida.
The girls from “Airón” are here.
That journal’s still being published? Apparently so.
Katz! Shall we get started?
How are you, Tabachnik?
Sure, Basilia...
Stick around, Hugo... I think you’re going to like this. 27
“Howl” by Allen Ginsberg.
The opening words sent a chill through the room.
As if a spectral presence had taken possession of the bar.
Then came angels’ scratches. And demons’ kisses.
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The poem was an auger.
A crude X-ray.
A visceral description.
A descent into the deepest, foulest reaches.
A vomiting. But with divine aspirations.
Squeezing out our souls.
And the auger didn’t stop.
it kept drilling into our ears.
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Later.
Amazing. So, what did you think?
Written with passion and madness.
That’s the beatniks! You’ve got to read them...
That poem changed my life. it altered my path and pointed me north.
Then... I let it carry me along.
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