Walked to the library. Almost a week without music. Smell of books. Too many men in a tiny, barely ventilated room. Signed up for Guns’n Roses’ Appetite for Destruction. Right to “Sweet Child of Mine”. Always have good flashbacks. Try not to think of Axl in red shorts. Good to hear. Clear mind. Guilty pleasure. On way to library ran into Gary. You remember Gary from the first couple of blogs. He moved to the front yard. Tomorrow (8-31) he’s leaving. Good guy. Hope all goes well. I’m jealous (not really). He’s back in your world now. Treat him good. Such a good friend when I first came here. Can’t wait to see him on the outs. Friends.
Got a copy of The Best-American Poetry 1989. Reason being beyond Donald Hall as editor, Elaine Equi. David Shapiro. Robert Creeley. Tom Clark. Thom Gunn. Cool. & I got a book on western gunfighters. Looking for stories on Deadwood. Someone ripped them out. Damn. Look at a GQ magazine. Jeff Koons & flesh. Perfume & flesh. D&G. Flesh. Ah, America keep your queer shoulder to the road.
Tonight burritos. Walking. Clean clothes. Pleasant dreams. & tomorrow arrives in the homeless guy’s brown paper bag. Damp & used. & such a treasure.
Where do we go now? Where do we go?
the letter ends, remember me to Noah
according to Slim
with the pirates
geese fly above
groups of 3 7 11
a monarch butterfly
can carry the soul
of a loved one