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July 11, 2002
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July 11, 2002
This is the summer of the poorly engineered tent, of the rotten tooth
and the Lenten ice fast when all cold beverages are given up to God, not
man. Slash and burn. On the cell phone today to S… wondering why
my M.C. stopped working. Seems they got some returned mail from me, left
no forwarding address, all that. Guess they thought the guy swipin' a
cheap pair of sneaker boots and a 12 pack o' Pabst was an impostor, same
guy who just picked up my wallet after i de-materialized into thin air
(and with any luck to some kinder, gentler parallel universe). Now this
guy was abusing me and my "left no forwarding address"-status
by trying to run a vishooooos!-fish-us $27 scam on that noble & sacred
old American consumer institution, Sears, Roebuck & Co., and its decidedly
lesser son, the ignoble & downright foul Wal-Mart. Swine! If only
they'd bring back debtor's prisons, we posh few of the American aristocracy
could be rid of these 27 dollar swindling scum!
Wait a minute. What am i saying? This was just an illustration, an exaggerated
metaphor. The real truth is that there was no impostor and it was me,
little ole me standin' there in that fetid hole, that cash-register-crustacom
encrusted cunt of consumerism (No, wait. Scratch that cunt. I like cunts,
very fond of them in fact. And i like the word cunt. It was that apropos
onomatopoetic dirty erotic ring to it, like the French "chat"
(pussy) and very unlike the German "Schnecke" or snail.
So scratch that last comment or rather take out the word cunt and insert
"crapper," much better. Crapper, a word used gratuitously throughout
Bukowski poems and one i didn't care for (being somewhat potty-phobic
or potty-snotty in the sense of disliking all scatological references
until i read it about 100 times and it became "classic Chinaski."
Where was i?
Having difficulty putting words down this last day & a half with my
attorney and his eyebrow-pierced star-bellied sneech fee-mail companion
hanging around the campfire. My attorney knows how to handle me, knows
the drill, immediately comprehends phrases like "fuck off, I'm thinking,"
and, "Don’t stare at me while i work, it gives me the creeps!"
He understands the writer's need for companionship without constant trivial
dialogue. We can hang, he and i, drink beers, smoke opium, blow off fireworks
and still i can write thru it all. But this girl, if for no other reason
than her 3rd-wheel presence, has muddied the Bayou backwaters of my soggy,
silly writer's mind.
Write Me!