Fucked up, east of hollywood.

Katherine now looks like a poem I wrote.

I hope she makes it back.

I said good morning and in her lazy smile I saw a terror of bliss.

She had taken another dose, presumably because her girlfriend is threatening to leave her again, and gone to get cigarettes; on her return I will bum one and we will smoke and then she will offer and I will accept and tumble a little bit too quickly into an unplanned tomorrow, scraping up of yesterday what we can. 

 

My birthday was sunday.

I’ve been drinking since 10 AM and my roommates just took some Xanax.

My tooth is newly chipped, and its virgin roughness is giving me anxiety.

I’ll cut out from now on pictures of pretty women in magazines and tack them to my wall, because they can satisfy me more than any of the women I know. 

An excerpt from an unfinished poem:

“Fuck you,” read the premier line on Ms. 5150’s short letter.
Men who (with some debate) have always been dead are dying.
This raises my favorite question: if a man fails to retire in the lines he is given
does he remain forever alive, as a course of fact? 

“I had a dream I could buy my way to Heaven. When I awoke I spent that on a necklace.”

I’m burning this bowl with matches; the lighters are always disappearing.

We broke up yesterday, though it could be said we were never together. This is fine, and I realize hard work is fine, and I curse that indominable Nazi epithet.

Funky Soul at the Echo

Old men with large cocks are getting fucked on television. 

I will out later, but after I finish this bowl and kill a few more cockroaches.

To the members of this wonderful organization,

RETIREMENT;

watching a friend die the slow death,  

The wedding band I wear is made of plastic.

I’ve been without a wallet for the last day, and living off the hospitality of others.

Prayer and Sacrament at the Baker’s, and the Salon tonight, too.

And to my friends, I give thanks: the broken robot, the yellow devil, and the others, both female and not.

But I still choose to spill my seed onto the moaning of whores. It is a vice I’ve yet to kill.
 

They told me this would be the plight of the lion.

The meatman cries often.

‘The bout will be had at the behest of the trade…’

I cannot say much for the clones. I cannot say much for the order.

…with an unclaimed manuscript…

And the correspondance stopped altogether. 

Waiting, with an unclaimed manuscript, it came to pass over me, as though it were never mentioned: the Angel was merely a hallucination; the voice behind the telegrams, which I hold bound in my hands, is something much uglier.

It always takes me awhile to wake up. 

But there are hardly ghosts anymore. There is no reason for ghosts,

“Is there any of that vodka left,” I imagine her saying. 

And I worried about leprosy today, but

after that forty and the hash rock, I just want to slink away to the alley house. 

Sassafrass,

and two water bottles.

NO RE-ENTRY.

then on the stoop, there was Juan and his key-bumps of cocaine.

I couldn’t think about dreaming, and I still haven’t called my mom,
and this quiet thing I call my conscience is remaining steady

(even through the Sassafrass and booze)

because I am not going to be the one to break a heart,

especially not while Heidi’s flowers are melting into the blue sky of the window pane.