The first entry in this journal. I shall ignore the trivial past, since that has already been buried by tens of thousands of words and I don't see any benefit to disinterring them from their grave.
LATER
Sitting in Blimpie's on the corner of 11th and 6th Avenue.
Across the street is Trude Heller's. Supposedly Barry and the Remains were the house band in the 60s. My friend, James Spicer, called the owner 'the ugliest woman on 6th Avenue. He wouldn't say why he felt that way. I've never been inside or ever heard music coming from the rock disco.
Probably never will.
I eat a sandwich hoping to shake off a MDA hang-over.
LATER
At Dojo's on St. Mark's.
MY body is shot.
Last night I grew intensely jealous of the time Ann spent at the Ensemble Theater and I mind-gamed her, saying, "Maybe we should just be friends."
EVEN LATER
I ran into Mark Amitin on 3rd Avenue.
He took one look at my leather outfit with pointy toed shoes and said, "You're a white nigger."
I took it as a compliment.
Different people see me in different ways.
I am not a legal person.
I am white, which is a good disguise whenever the police see me.
Whites get a break from the cops.
They pack the jails and prison with Africanos, Latinos, and any one of color.
If an officer were to point a finger at a white man and ask, "Was it him?
"The victim would have doubts.
Especially really white people.
Then again I'm no real criminal.
Just a punk.
LATER
Screaming runs the man
Screaming
Down the tiled tunnel
Fast.
His screams are without words
He alone understands them
And their echoes off the tiled walls.
More bad poetry
LATER
People are returning from spring holidays.
Tanned.
Some ask, "What are you doing for the summer?"
I have no plans.
I have no money.
No way to get to the West Coasts or Europe or even Cleveland.
LATER
The Upper East Side is where the money is in this city; home to bankers, fashion boutiques, art galleries, and mansions.
I know none of them.
Just the Southern boys living over Serendipity 3.
