Here I am. A mile and a half without
the drugs of the disco, awaiting a second
of creativity. Today I got a letter addressed to
“Comedy Laugh.” Later I cleaned the coffee.
“You’re the one that has trouble with tenses.”
Then the dog at the dark end of the hole was
barking inadequately. I tried to translate it
this morning. Something about a steeple
closing itself in on a skyscraper like
greedy scissors.
When she said “that faggot” of course.
Taken out of context: I’ve got my
grandfather’s temper. I need a gum.
This page is ready to go. Cambridge
seems the ideal spot for male bisexuality.
