Why the appeal of dissonance? Or
why such appealing dissonance? Would
that his atonality refused me. I’m with-
drawn as if to a non-Pollack Pollack, some-
thing a magnetic mirror would exchange
with my knuckled head. And blah is the
business of it. Blah the cigarettes of
sexual internment which intend to
resist my turn-ons,
insist upon them instead.
And why should we resist? Here we
sit, right in the very front, describing
San Francisco to the Japanese. Fifteen
minutes and I have to move my car.
