Jim passes through the unshaven room in his underwear. He listens through the wall to your dreams and waking nightmares. His shuddering cloud-mood and brain-lightning leaps toward the poles of his consciousness like backyard green tree cemetery dawns and kind king light of mind. He is drained of brilliance; the stale beer afternoon cracks the doom of his fetid windowsill, his screaming vomiting whispering, his brilliant eyes. The ambiguous picture postcard that is his bleak furnished room in Kansas (or is it Idaho? He isn’t sure anymore; he is CONFUSED, yes, seeking as he is visionary supernatural ecstasies and impulses of winter midnight). Who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico? He just doesn’t care anymore. The ash of poetry is scattered incomprehensibly, and the machinery of other skeletons howls and screams with joy. Jim would like to thank Allen Ginsberg for his invaluable assistance in helping him to compose his thoughts.