May 2, 1978 - Journal Entry

Am I a poet?

People think so, but they consider poets wastrels without money. Throughout time poets have suffered scorn, hatred, ridicule, apathy, love, and poverty. Hart Crane wrote THE BRIDGE. Sailors threw him off a ship in the middle of the Caribbean. Poe died from drugs, Byron drowned in Greece, and Joyce Kilmer was slaughtered along with millions of his generation in the trenches of France. None of them sought these deaths. They just happened, despite the magic of words and syllables set to a cadence. They mold languages far from the public. Few people read poetry and even fewer hear it spoken. I recite my poems to the walls. My drunken neighbor at the SRO hotel bangs on the wall.

"Shut up already."

His three words cast a spell.

I go silent.

The only poets making money are singers.

I can't sing, so I work as a waiter.

As the Rolling Stones said, "It's the singer, not the song.

LATER

I played softball with the crew from EST. My position was right field. No one hit in my direction. Ann took over pitching in the fourth frame. I hit a triple in the fifth and our side had a one run lead. She kept them off the bases. In the last inning a young actor from Kansas hit a ball sharply. Ann raised her glove too late. The ball struck her face.

She spun around, as if she had been shot, holding her head. I ran from right field. Her theater friends clustered around Ann. They stood shocked by her pain. I kneeled and held her right hand. Her left hand covered that side of her face, which was red from the impact.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," stammered the young actor.

"It's not your fault," answered Ann and the studio director, Kurt Dempster, asked, "Do you want to go to a hospital. Maybe your nose is broken."

That was the last thing any actress wants to hear and I said, "It looks fine to me, Ann. Breathe deeply."

After a minute Ann stood up. "I'm okay."

She sat out the final outs and I joined her.

After the game we went downtown to my place. My drunk neighbor was playing on his sax. I asked Ann if it bothered her.

"No, I like Coltrane. Will I have a black eye?"

"No, but if you do, it will be cute."

LATER

Why am I content with poverty?

I haven't had a ten-spot in my pocket for days. My Irish grandfather and namesake would leave the house with less than $500 and that was in the 40s. I wish I was the same, instead I'm a pseudo-intellectual beggar.

After our fight about Anthony accusing me of stealing money, she said to him, "Peter wouldn't steal. If he wanted money, he'd get it from me."

I do love her.

In the meanwhile I'm waiting for my tax return check. I'm getting thinner and thinner. Marc Stevens asked if I wanted to deal cocaine. I said no. I tried dealing in Boston and only ended up deeper in debt. Right now I owe everyone money. I see no solution other than work. I tried to get a taxi job. I needed $75 to get the licenses. Nothing is free.

Ann is in love me with, but fears dependency on me. She'll probably leave for her own good. I wish I could do the same. Sadly I'm stuck with me.

Summer is getting closer.

Last year in Brooklyn was a disaster.

This summer is looking to be a repeat.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

That's the best poem I've written this year.

May 7, 1978 - Journal Entry

Ann and I had a small spat at my SRO room this morning after I said with us in bed, "There's noplace else I'd rather be than between your legs."

"Is that all you want from me?"

"That and..."

"What?" She was pissed. "All you ever want from me is sex."

"I'm sorry that I want you."

"Want me? All you want is to fuck."

"Sorry." The fury of my libido doesn't match her desires.

"It's all about you."

"I try and make you cum."

"Only so you can fuck me more." She sounded like se was accusing me of rape, but then said, "I have a horrible hang-over."

Bourbon and beer at Max's.

For some reason I was rock hard and held down my erection to keep from forming a circus tent under the sheets.

"I can't take a shower here."

I share the bathroom with six other men.

"Let's go to my place."

"I'll make breakfast."

Bacon and eggs was the first meal I made us. Neither of us spoke and I left without saying good-bye.

That was weird but whenever I walk away from someone, I am always tempted to turn around like Orpheus in fear of Eurydice not being there. Instead I stare ahead knowing Hades has his tricks, plus people are never really gone, they're just not there for a moment.

LATER

That evening I call Ann on the phone and she tells me, "I slept all afternoon and had weird dreams. Boy was I wet, when I woke up." "No, I wished you were here. Guess our timing is off for making love with a satyr."

"Better a Satyr than the Marquis de Sade."

"For me."

"Me too, I answer, but God knows why our civilization can support libertines more.

Blood, sex, death, money, and power in 18th Century France versus the chaos of the East Village in the 1970s.

It's a good contrast of wickedness.

My homosexual experimentations have been discarded. I don't see many of my gay friends. Only William. The entire experience consisted of sloppy kisses, small cocks, loose anuses, lisps, queer mannerisms, generally bad sex, but a lot of laughs and dancing and I owe the boys that. They were my friends when no one else was. They kept me alive in a world hostile to outlaws.

I found more pleasure in my hand than a stranger's touch.

I never went to any orgies with them, but once at the Cave I took on several men. Not being able to see their faces. Having a cock in your mouth and another in your ass was close to total degradation, unless it was your cock in someone else. William was there that night. He looked on and jerked off with tears in his eyes. He wanted me for his own, but I belonged to no one. No men. No women.

Not until Ann.

She has my heart.

April 15, 1978

Last night Ann and I saw a series on one-act plays at the Ensemble Theater.

Teenage pregnancy, abortion, and bag ladies were the themes.

She was angry with my thinking that they were shit.

We went to visit the Davis girls on Bleecker Street.

It was Kyle's birthday, but she was sick from drinking.

Ann was still mad, but let me sleep over her place.

"I've decided on your ultimatum."

Ann needs theater people around her.

She wants me as I want her.

I tell her I'll cool out and help her however I can.

I fall asleep in my jeans, tee-shirt, and sox.

Ann is in her night gown.

The sheets separate our bodies.

We sleep, but I wake in the middle of the night covered in sweat, asking myself, "Why am I such an asshole?"

Only one answer.

I'm scared of losing Ann.

But stifling her freedom does neither of us any good.

April 13, 1978

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.

May 6, 1978 - Journal Entry

I am stuffing myself with garbage food. I have a little money in my pocket, so I'm making up for lost time when I was broke. After paying off my prodigal debts, I have $150 in my pocket, almost a month's rent at the SRO, but there's no guarantee of more money in the future.

LATER

I've just beaten-off. I could have fucked Christine M, who came over my room to smoke a joint, but I begged off and she left angry. The telephone down the SRO hallway keeps ringing. The caller must be stupid. These rooms are small. If someone doesn't answer the phone, it's because they have a good reason.

I sit at the desk with paper and pen. I stare out the window. The alley is sunlit. Not a single word can I write on a blank sheet of paper. I turn to this journal. I've been writing in them for over three years. Every word meaning nothing, but I am content for the moment.

Ann is in love with me. I have money in my pocket, I'm young and healthy, but my armpits stink. Is that a sign of decay?

LATER

I ran into William Lively on Christopher Street. We visit Ro at David's Potbelly. Like him she attended NC School of the Arts.

"That's a surprise to see the two of you together. Two different worlds, but Peter is an expert of traveling between world. First Andy, then Kirk, and now you. Who knows where you'll end up."

I warned her about my upcoming birthday party.

"I'll try and come."

"I understand if you don't."

She looked very tired.

William and I left for a stroll along West Street. I sieg-heiled the cruising leather boys. I have interest in that game. They were angry at me and I responded, "You and your leather are the height of Nazi fashion."

William laughed.

He doesn't have the S&M itch, but he does want me.

LATER

Blood pounds, as he forces the door An easy job The thrill of invasion plus the satisfaction of booty Ah, theifdom the rue of no one.

LATER

After I recite this poem to William, he says, "Tim got robbed again."

"It wasn't me." I hadn't been to their apartment in weeks.

"I know. Tim doesn't lock the door. All his tricks know that."

"Serves them right." I'm still pissed about their accusing me of robbing them.

"When of course it was their our friend, Andy Reese.

April 29,1978

Ann, her mother, and I went dinner at Serendipidity 3. Tim Dunleavey and William Lively joined us. The four of them went to a play on Broadway. I headed down to CBGBs. The Tuff Darts were on stage. I drank a beer, wearing a suit. I didn't have any money, but as my Nana said to me, "It's one thing to be broke, it's another look it."

A couple from New Jersey were picking on a gay boy. I never liked bullies and told them to stop. They swore at me, saying, "Mind your own business, fuckhead."

I laughed at them and the boy got ready to spit at me.

"You spit on me and I break your face."

I swallow my gum, since it's never good to get whack with a slack jaw.

His drunk girlfriend crowed, "Go ahead, you faggot."

The gay boy fled the bar area. Merv the bouncer was nowhere in sight. Her friend cleared his throat and said, ""You're six million times a Jew. I should shot you."

"Why don't you do everyone a favor and try and be human."

"Fuck you." He brandished the gun in his waistband.

I sucker-punched him in the jaw and grabbed his shirt so he couldn't get away. He struggled to get at his gun. I punched him in the nose. Blood poured from both nostrils. I struck him again. KO. I released him and he slumped to the floor. No one at the bar had even noticed the brief fight and I bent over to get his gun. His girlfriend kicked at me, screaming in pure Brooklynese, "Wait till my father hears about this. He'll kill you."

I restrained her as best as I could, as her boyfriend rose up and blindsided me with a sharp right. His best punch and I heard a tooth crack. I turned to him, but before I could get revenge, people restrained us. Merv thew them out and I followed. They were gone and I went inside rubbing my jaw.

Several minutes later Ann came up, swearing under her breath at Hilly's daughter, "I hate her. She made me pay."

I never paid.

I don't know why.

"You missed my fight."

"I was wondering what was the commotion. I figured it was some idiots having a fight."

"That's me." I didn't tell her about saving the gay boy and we left the bar. Ann walked me to 11th Street. I invited her upstairs.

"I can't. My mother's afraid of the city."

"With good reason." New York was dangerous. "I'll walk you home."

"You don't have too."

"It's a dangerous city."

At her door she kissed me and said, "Come by at 3. My mother will be at a play."

"I'll be there."

LATER

Ann wasn't home at 3 and I figured she had gone to the matinee with her mother. I thought about calling an old girlfriend, but decided to wait for Ann. Her mother can't stay in New York forever.

LATER

People are full of shit. None of them mean what they say. I would rather be a hermit than have to listen to their drivel and my room at the SRO is like a Trappist monk's cell. No phone. No TV. The more possession you have the less you are yourself. Only a few visitors come here; William Lively, Mark, Eleanor, Ann, Anthony, Jaci, Kim, and Andy Reese.

Ann is the only regular.

No one else has returned to this squalid room. My life becomes completely obscure here. Often I'm lonely. The four walls never change. except for the pattern of the cockroaches' wanderings. These vermin are more alive than me and if the hotel burned to the ground, there would be no trace of me. My remains will be sent to a pauper's grave, since I couldn't afford a cremation and that's the end I want.

Bones ground to dust. A warm urn filled with white ashes.

LATER

Thank the stars for CBGBs. It's my only source of entertainment. Cold beer and punk rock. I need money.

LATER

Where is Ann? Where is Andy? Where is my Mother and Father? Where are my brothers and sisters. Where are my teachers? The wall to my left matches the other three walls And the ceiling, but not the floor. I am the only one in this room Everyone else in the world is outside. Where am I? Here? Where are you? Not here. Where are you and I?

LATER

Ann and I went to Max's. It was too smoky for my lungs. The doorman was charging $10 to see the Heartbreakers. I shook my head. I had no money and walked Ann back to her apartment. Outside on the street I whispered, "Let's fuck."

"My mother's there."

"I know, but we can pretend to be in high school."

"I'm not a high school cheerleader."

"I never said you were." My hand slipped under her dress and strayed between her legs.

Ann pushed me away and said, "Go now."

She wasn't angry, but didn't kiss me good-night.

I jumped the train and sat smelling her on my fingers.

Wishing it was more.

LATER

A junkie gave me a Black Beauty on 6th Avenue. "I seen you play B-Ball at West 4th. You play defense. If you have money one day, give me $2."

I dropped the pill and continued to my room. The ruthless rush of Speed drove my blood through the night. Speed is not a good bed companion. I felt strong. I felt not alone. It was all a delusion.

april 28, 1978

Ann's mother is in town from Charleston, West Virginia. I've never been to Appalachia. Ann keeps telling me that she's not from a 'hollah'. I believe her, but I do like her accent.

Ann's mother's visit means no sex for a couple of days.

This morning we showered in the SRO hotel's bathroom. Back in my room Ann slipped on her panties Wait a moment." I had an erection.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?"

"Give me a naked hug."

"I know where this is going," she answered, but leaned over to my body.

I rubbed her smooth back, massaging her muscles.

"Let's fuck."

We'll be late for work."

Me to a Wall Street executive dining room and her to the theater.

I wanted flesh and said, "Okay, but just suck me a little."

"Damn, don't you ever stop."

"Her mouth surrounded my cock. I came within a minute.

"Happy now?" She dressed quickly.

"Happier." I put on my clothes slowly, hoping she would want more, but she left and I did the same five minutes later.

LATER

I haven't smoked reefer for three days. The longest stoppage, since the DEA was spraying the marijuana crops with toxic pesticides. Paraquat poisoning 15 million pot smokers. The DEA is a semi-criminal government organization set up by Nixon to persecute anyone not in the silent majority. They should be hung by the balls. The first batch of paraquat weed had me coughing like I was going to lose a lung and I stopped for several months, until my friend Andy in Boston found a dealer with clean Mexican marijuana.

Ann doesn't smoke at all.

Me I like it all.

Hash, tar resin, kif, and opium the ket to dreams and an addiction to escape from this world. Reality is a problem for me. I can't stop the fascist corporate rape of the world. Not by myself.

Only in dreams do I win the battles.