My 17-Minute Love Affair with Allen Ginsberg

This is another example of Dumont writing missives on important dates. This one is dated April 6, 1997, the day that Allen Ginsberg died. This is a short piece about meeting Mr. Ginsberg (the assumption that it's true is mine).

April 6, 1997
The year was 1958 and I was living with Pete and Francine in a brownstone on Grove Street, a large one bedroom with most kitchen amenities and a hot plate. Pete and Francine paid most of the rent and claimed the bedroom while I paid what I could and slept on a mattress in the living room.

Greenwich Village was a pretty wild place in those days and people were always coming in and out spouting off poetry and rambling none such that somehow meant something in my clouded brain but in reality probably didn't. But when you're constantly high and nursing from the teat of lady grape, reality plays a very minor role in your everyday life.

Anyway, I think it was a weekend night because the activity on the street was a little more frantic than normal. It was an electric spring evening with temperatures in the high 60s and no clouds. Pete and Francine and me along with some others were lounging around smoking grass, listening to records when a group of folks popped in looking to score. We didn't have enough to sell but we invited them in to partake in what we had. We were very cordial to one another in those days. I had been smoking a lot of grass that day and by the time they arrived I was nearly beat. I was having difficulty keeping up with the conversation, and being a bit older than the others I didn't much care for what they were saying anyway. The apartment was cloudy with smoke and I used the screen as an opportunity to slide into Pete and Francine's room to rest my weary eyes.

Their room was always beautiful. I loved being in there, especially with Francine. They had a great big window that afforded a decent view of the west side and a fortunate breeze sent the cotton curtains billowing into the room like great sails of an English galley. I laid down. Francine's bed was soft and smelled of the sweet smelling oil that she adorned herself with in the mornings. The breeze, the patchouli, and the sound of laughter from the other room made for a heavenly experience. If I concentrate hard enough I can remember it vividly even today.

I must have drifted off because when I awoke I could feel another's presence in the room. I was still under the spell of the weed but based on where I was I only assumed it was Francine. I dared not move or open my eyes. I felt the weight of the person sit down beside me; she began playing with my hair. I didn't want to give away the fact that I was awake so I limited the evidence of my pleasure to a sly smile. Our game went on for what seemed like an eternity. The breeze was so comfortable. In my mind's eye, Francine and I were running through the open glens of Scotland as if from some fruity musical. But the moment couldn't last. Finally she came close and kissed my forehead. But she didn't smell like the patchouli that I had come to expect from Francine. And then he spoke. "Sleep now brother and smell the sweet air of freedom and always always fly your dreams."

Obviously not Francine. I would later learn that it was none other than Allen Ginsberg saying those sweet words. Although I've never had even the slightest homosexual urge in all my years, I did feel love during those 17 minutes. You too fly your dreams, brother.