Sitting on the bed sometime ready to die,
Hurrying to the gymroom to run 3.45 miles, black kid already with afro sitting on concrete porch playing by himself | under the window where last week I saw a naked girl getting flash photographed & how she smiled & touched the glass I did not even slow down | the afro child talking to himself or to the object he is holding that I can not recognize from anything
He says something to me in my passing and the only words I hear inside them are 'Michael Jackson'
& in hearing that much & how his eyes are I go, Oh yah, with the short A sound the way I have suddenly affected in recent weeks, only realizing post-answering that he has asked if the figure pictured on my shirt is Michael Jackson & no it is a woman with white skin and red lips almost showing her tits
(long story, how I got this shirt) (not really long at all)
& he watches me approach him briefly with the shirt on & then think better of it & I go on & he is not there when I come back sopping & the lights in the apartment there are off
The pool today was very busy, people were large or small, I stood behind the bars
Last night the man in the bar with forearms big as three of mine with the skin head and the tattoo of flames where there should have been hair, who under whatever could not stand up & instead toddled through the bar leaning on whoever was right there
grabbing Chris's ass & Alex's ass & air humping at a forced huddle group hug, taking whoever would let him by the hand & somewhat barking & to Chris, "It feels good" "What feels good" "(incoherent)"
Alex (my paraphrasing): "There are some kinds of people who you can see who have just been through the thing, & there's nothing you can do to stop them."
On his chest Alex with the tattoo of Jeff who we realized has been gone now 8 years
The fruit juice that was in the refrigerator last I looked is not there either | & there are all these books inside my house
I don't know I guess I feel pretty good
If I ever had the chance to buy a machine gun cheaply I would lay it on the floor of here in the most difficult place to walk around
& leave the bullets in the oven
Open the book perpetually beside my bed, pick a sudden sentence, try to imagine it as an advice:
"Every proposition must already have a sense; assertion cannot give it a sense, for what it asserts is the sense itself. And the same hold of denial, etc.
"One could say, the denial is already related to the logical place determined by the proposition that is denied."
& the second book beside my this year sandwiched underneath the other, another sentence sent in:
"He is cured by faith who is sick of fate."