He was the Pope of Dope, the guzzler of vodka and Coke, the killer of his wife, the author of Queer and Naked Lunch, the man who slept with a gun under his pillow and wept at the thought of his cats dying in a nuclear war, the gay lover nobody loved back enough to make him feel quite human. “Thanks,” he spat, in a cutting Thanksgiving poem, “for the latest and greatest betrayal of the latest and greatest of human dreams.” Finally there’s a Burroughs documentary with heart, not just driven by morbid curiosity. by Jen Graves