Dream Record : June 8, 1955 by Allen Ginsberg


William S Burroughs


A drunken night in my house with a

boy, San Francisco: I lay asleep:


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 a 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 jumps

with the same beat genius as before,

notebooks filled with Buddha.

I hope he makes it, she laughed.

Is Hunke still in the can? No,

last time I saw him on Times Square.

And how is Kenney? Married, drunk

and 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 acqaintances?

What do you remember of us?

faded in front of me- The next instant

I saw her rain-stained tombstone

rear an illegible epitaph

under a the gnarled branch of a small

tree in the wild grass

of an unvisited garden in Mexico.

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