Alligators in the Psychic Sewers

there are alligators running around in these psychic sewers. i'm not where i think i am, and not even aware of whether or not this place is appealing or not. everyones got a gossamer accent, saying things that sound different than what would be written. i don't have strength to appease anything or anyone. i'm barely there to be selfish, and surely i should have plenty of motive for that. to speak negatively about someone else shows weakness. even if guised as assistance, advice, concern, caring, love, friendship, etc.

the pixies once again remedied a bout of The Malaise, but the next selection eased me back into alt.coffee contempt for new york nothingness. students just love their conversations. particularly the guys who have all night to say all sorts of things to some generous young femme willing to indulge academic borne freedom into obligation to benefactors and uttered ego full of insight.

without a young lady, i offer overpriced words. well, they're overpriced by my standards since i have to pay for them. if i don't get certain word, it seems like the best idea to go the wrong direction again.

not enough sleep to dream, and not enough solace to sleep. zhat's eating me,i wonder. it seems so unlikely that i actually get something that almost nobody else gets, but i believe i'm getting myself together even if my reference is the folks that don't get it. there are plenty of only living boys in new york i would bet you, if i had the money, which i do not. downtown is just no good with these fake haughty laugh at the joke to make it funny enterprises. don't get too worried, ladies, you'll find a man in no time. same thing goes for you dapper young fitchsters, you'll have a girl that fits right in, just right out of the catalogue.

we shall overcome? shall we then? am i a deserter? i couldn't finish the box of popsicles, so i _had_ to abandon them. i am not so much coward as i was too easily convinced to let it go, against my better judgment, too early in the morning i could excuse myself. i won't though. never a wasted frozen confection again, i will try.

AS GENUINE AS EVERY CIGARETTE I SMOKE

Never Pawn Your Astrolabe

08/25/02

(Drama, drama, everywhere. A comedy of absurd despair. I don't live for this.)

08/05/02

Where is my astrolabe? Who waits for a ship to come in? Lonesome girls, often conspiring with the ocean to assuage their guilt. Longshoremen, figuring they have time to sober up. Those who report to some one or other.  They ask the same question every day with their perpetually concerned expression, which is answered day to day with an empty harbor.

One day their ships will come in. In the meantime, I am looking for one going out. One day a grey-beard loon I be.

One contradiction corrects another.

Time Passes, just like Space

Time moves slowly by.

The rain is perfect, and this month is extremely quiet. Everyone has left. Annoying crime is common, and the racaille have a buffet. That isn't just because of it being Aout, though. My suspicion is that one must live here for the fall and winter. Parisiennes know the world from Paris, like New Yorkers frame everything with their rivers, boroughs, and subway lines.

Not afraid, but sensing possible tragedy of deeply wounding experiences. Am I the hanged man? I am afraid of a dreamlike explanation of someone else's unwarranted divinations. Not really.

Again, I am minuscule in a vast and vacant universe. At night I wake up and can not sleep or find comfort on my metallic mattress. I try to read and eat when I am not hungry. Sometimes have to re-read the same page 5 times before i recognize that it's in french and the part i didn't understand is still not understood.

Never could figure out, there isn't a very easy way to determine if Prof was really just got bamboozled. Either way, he asks me for too many cigs and beers. I don't have the money for that kinda nonsense. Prof also sleeps in the catacomb subway platform at St. Michele, behind some utility cabinets, maybe with fuckloads of electricity coursing through for all I know. Lots of passenger loogies, dried on the wall, pigeon shit, feathers everything else.

Prof isn't the healthiest person I've ever met. Not the most sensible. He's not an idiot though. .. I like the way he speaks. His name, "prof" is, according to him, from his way of speaking. Also, the amount that he speaks. He's been in prison a few times. For some reason, I can't imagine having to do time with him.

Granted, he's pretty obviously an alcoholic and shoplifter, but if he had a job or something and a lot of rehabilitation, I bet he'd be great company. He's got that adolescent boy thing where he's always making a scene and annoying people by hitting them ion the back of the head. That would get old.

He tells stories of being in the alps and finding clean water. Some old hermit who owns the property of the source, the spring, chases him off and tells him to go downstream, but letsProf know that the water is still good. Prof lies in the sunshine and cleans himself with water. the old country man brings some meat and bread and prof is elated. They share some bond in polite respect, although in the cite Prof shows much different character. His last name is Gologol or Golgoli or some russian name. I forget his first name at the time, but i am not sure how important it is. Nickolas? Alexander?

I have no idea why Prof was way out in nowhere, or how he got back into the cities. I just hope that my life isn't like his.

Jay Tigabinowitz reports from Seattle. He seems to have a similar problem where he ends up going the opposite cardinal direction he plans on going when traveling. The phenom I speak of isn't being or becoming lost, and isn't meant on the smaller scale of local daily trips and explorations of a place, but is one strange curse where after deciding to go East across the US, one goes West. Similarly, then trying to go North, I have ended up South and so on.

No compass or GPS unit can prevail the bizarre currents of destiny. They only allow you to confirm that you are indeed going the opposite direction you expected to be going.

I miss all of those who tired of my antics, all those who I simply couldn't behave myself around. There are loads of people that I don't miss. People that have helped me spend money. People that have been very kind to me, but one way or another I have betrayed or failed. It all seems the same in some ways. To betray or be betrayed. But I miss more those relationships which are null because of misconception, in various forms. It passes.

Life continues. Even when it seems unbearable. Agoraphobia subsides with a tidal rebirth of some comfortable evening when the feeling of breathing air and the last of the sun are symbolically and actually amniotic and redemptive in giving the strength and peace to go on.

I honestly believe that automotive exhaust on city streets is enough to give one the feeling of being trapped and drowning in the ether of superreal or maybe sub-surreality of urban life. A deep breath leads me sometimes to pant for another.

If San Francisco hadn't been so vicious or maybe if San Diego wasn't turning into the turn of the century corporate culture sprawl of mundane pointlessness I could have kept breathing that air. Los Angeles is notorious for its poor air, and to be honest I think I have some fear of that city.

Show me purity, and tranquility in America. She's never promised that to me. I never promised anything to her, other than allegiance to her flag and the republic as one sovereignty situated under God with freedom and balance of interests for each and every person! That wasn't entirely my choice. She describes herself poorly.

A Sunday the 4th of August, 2002

The last of my Skenan 100mg
Morphine Sulphate, rough going in
Enough to worry me until it subsides
And the Morphine sets in, washing
Through me like a tide of hope
It reminds me that I can live on
Through every devastating tragedy
Life is neither short nor long
When you aren't afraid of death
And don't know your fate.