"Ginsberg with Barbara Rubin, Allen’s 39th birthday party, Barry Miles’ apartment, London, June 3, 1965. Miles had organised the party, since Allen was staying at his place already. As the story goes John Lennon and George Harrison stopped by round midnight to find a naked Ginsberg with a do-not-disturb sign tied to his penis."
William Burroughs with David Hockney. Naropa Institute, Boulder, Colorado
In the 1950s, Swiss photographer Robert Frank snapped a photo of a Miami Beach elevator girl gazing upward, lost in thought, which was included in his 1958 photographic road-trip journal “The Americans.”
In the book’s introduction, Jack Kerouac wondered about her, writing, “That little ole lonely elevator girl looking up sighing in an elevator full of blurred demons, what’s her name & address?”
Kerouac never found out, because Sharon Collins only recognized herself as the girl in the photo  years ago, when “The Americans” was being exhibited in San Francisco. [She stated,] “I stood in front of this particular photograph for probably a full five minutes, not knowing why I was staring at it. And then it really dawned on me that the girl in the picture was me.”
This makes me think of the following line from On the Road:
“A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.”
"Allen’s highshchool yearbook page with classmates inscriptions. June 1943"
"hates dull teachers and Republicans."
Allen Ginsberg, Peter Orlovksy and fellow meditators, blocking the supply rail for Rocky Flats nuclear weapons production facility, Jefferson County, Colorado, June 1978. photo c. Joe Daniel
Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg at the Kerouac Commemmorative, Bridge St. Lowell Massachusetts
Maybe it is true we have to return
to the black air of ashcan city
because it is there the most life was burned,
as ghosts or criminals return?
But no, the city has no monopoly
of intense life. The dust burned,
golden or violet in the wide land
to which we ran away, images
of passion sprang out of the land
as whirlwinds or red flowers, your hands
opened in anguish or clenched in violence
under that sun, and clasped my hands
in that place to which we will not return — obsessions//denise levertov (via sunsetpanic)
where so much happened that no one else noticed,
where the city’s ashes that we brought with us
flew into the intense sky still burning.
Peter Orlovsky, Allen Ginsberg & Tom Pickard.