This morning I woke twenty-one cents in my pocket and my heads hurting from too much alcohol. I thought I had a couple of dollars more. There was nothing. We only have eggs, bread, and butter in the refrigerator. Alice cries about our poverty.
“I don’t know what I am doing here.”
You’re working and going to acting classes. I don’t work enough and have no ambition.”
“You have your poetry.” Alice pointed to my journal. She never reads it. She is weak some times and I am dedicated to holding her up. She is a thousand times more talented than me and only a bud of a flower.
“Yes, there is always that.” My poetry sucks and no one makes money from poetry, unless they teach it to college kids seeking truth in words. I want magic.
Now that Alice and I are living together I have decided to be monogamous. I tell her, “I love you.”
It’s true, but sounds so bland, because faithfulness is a challenge doomed to failure. A month ago I had rooftop sex with soft skinned Nan, a photographer from Boston. She was into drag queens. I was still straight that way and had also given up sex with men. I couldn’t find anyone without a lisp in New York.
Like in my poem most of the people around me are faggots, chronic maniacs, sexually political women, strippers, junkies, college girls, drug dealers, musicians, and rich slummers. We are all broke. No one has an income, except for the rich. A phone call home will rescue us. I don’t have enough change to make the call, so I will stay to endure poverty. It is freedom, a freedom I share with Alice. She is a great fuck. I never have to fake it.
THE NEWS
The Red Sox are in 1st place and the Yankee catcher Thurman Munson has died in a Cessna crash nine days ago.
Pope Pius XII is sanctified for burial. Before his death he predicted the date of Armageddon as that declared at Fatima.
Newspaper strike in New York City.
Last night I drank till CBGBs’ closing. Alice had stayed home and women came up offering sex in the bathroom, blowjobs in the alley, standing fucks between cars, cocaine, and Qualludes. I accepted all, but the sex, thinking I have to save my energy to apply for a real job with a bank or government and saying fuck the punk life.
Foto by David Godlis
Thurman