excuse me. Nervous breakdown bronchitis lost my muse 3 months ago stupid kathy thinks its funny she sits at the table I am on no sleep and panic panic panic fields are steep on this road in the pounding sun.
she grew up in bombay thinks she’s used to this heat but let me tell you we both ended up sick and lying down in the hot room.
“i don’t feel so good.”
dogs in the upstairs bedroom with blackout curtains and sculptures of african warlords
where is he? Jesus fuckin christ
the stolid woman goes on relentlessly, extruding the contents of her mind. Made up mainly of concrete and spite. She’s an idiot
unchaste grin. Curly fries
hey where’s bill. Y’know the guy who used to work here, long hair…the guy looks at me. ‘he still works here. He leaves at noon.
(there are places on the road where pollen comes flying out of nowhere).
Sweet jesus Saturday morning on the road at 7:15, the first day of a new job I go in. not much constancy in the heartbeat chest area. Dan with goatee done up in sequential rubber bands glares disapproving windows to nowhere not much going on in there
he’s not here. Its 7:30. I am gut shot
5 SECONDS OF TERROR
and some unisex college kid plugged into devices
“86” clutching my swill I see him for the first time
The drug is the reptile brain incarnate. It blows the prefrontal cortex to bits. to a piece of darkness inside the brutal sun of a midday heat wave. I take the descent slowly. The squalor.
Yeah he does.
Oh is he workin nights or something?
No he leaves at noon.
Ok thank you.
When he darts out from behind the wall.
we see each other. We have always seen each other.
I hear a certain engine sound in suburbia where I live. It’s that sound. The jet comes down, erupting in flames from its gas tank engine wings.
There are places on the road where you do not want to go, but you go anyway.
there were so many curtains covering up the window, full of mold, and and I just kept taking off fabric after fabric until a tiny piece of glass that was not boarded up right in the middle showed out to the yellow house next door, which was actually really funny when you think about it. All the lamps had water in the bulbs. Water in the wires. Many breezes shook the curtains, but there were so many layers that they barely moved. Which was funny also. so I go over and you are there, standing behind the counter with your head turned to the side, slight smile cracking your bad teeth. you are my sterno. I am a yellow tulip’s insides. for you.
The shaman made it 1460 stiches I wrote it down on cheese but…
singing he takes the stage. We look for him on the wharf and he comes down singing the song of all his heart which is the sea. I draw his singing. I draw the skin of the sea. The heart of the sea as tattooed.
the girl works in a seven-hour daylight spa where behind a plastic wall the acolytes can look at the sea as is it once was, which was “bullshit,” she sez, “i don’t want to end up fifty seven doing this.” one girl has her charges all lined up. if they don’t move, then artificial gravity allows them to be in the ocean but any movement screws up the illusion and makes waves. Harold is there. I am getting it all down, Harold has been banned from these exhibitions. He is an old salt. The man sings and I get it down.
A social worker shows up. my mother shows up. it is time for me to go. The social worker goes in the room with the acolyte in an effort to bring him to his senses. she comes out.
“i didn’t think this would happen,” she says, covered in blood. “i need fourteen hundred and sixty stitches,” she says before she collapses to the floor.
The guy was so hooked into his computer there was an acid drip into it and his virtual reality goggles. A girl eventually showed up.
“are you real?”
he says “yes. I am cyberreal. Real to you.”
at the school Lois took off before me because I wasn’t ready and I end up at the wrong school. Cops give me sloppy kisses. I wander from a mall to an old folks home to an exercise palace to the safety building with the cops to a place for the stricken. I wander incessantly. ‘Til my feet fall off.
“where’s Lansing?” I ask.
I am in the house with Jeff. I have a prestige job. It’s 4:20. I haven’t been there yet.
He lays with his back to me. We have a blond son: Rocco. The house has many windows that I go to shut against the wind.
A tree in California dropping leaves.
“winter always brings out the worst in people,” a woman says from her porch.
My sister (not really) disrobes in the leaves.
“c’mon, c’mon,” a guy says, sticking himself repeatedly with a needle. “let’s get this going.”
(against the crush of people in the mall)
“she’s living a Fellini life.”
“what’s your sister been up to?”
when the room goes black, you know it’s time to leave.
I’m very sad as they sit around and talk about Provincetown like it’s some kind of shit-hole.
“the only place with European charm was the marina.”
“way out in Provincetown.”
peaches on toast and clothes drying in front of the woodstove. Mabel is there. All these dead people.
Up the alley of the marina all us scum have been relocated. Dragged out of sight. I go to the liquor store to put another payment on a bag of blueberry ice.
“two hundred dollars?” the ladies behind the counter nod and smile.
“yep. They’re real lips.”
“no thanks. I want my money back.” they give me my money but it looks funny. Guys come around, lips glistening, staring at the ice bag.
“real lips?” they say.
the round hotel room with glass walls turns on its axis every hour to show downtown Newark. On one rotation: a deer in a winter tree, mangled. It climbs down though. And walks away as the room turns.
A large wolf outside the glass.
His chuff breath.
At the airport terminal an old lady says: “the next plane out of Newark will be in three weeks” and people bum-rush her. I am on the street, naked except for a romaine heart. The girls who pass me at the busses at least have mesh and pasties.
“where’s the mall?” I ask a cop.
“nobody should go there at night in this town.”
(green glass staircase. Tenements).