PROTOCOL FETISHIST
Your 950 makes me stagger and that length
of gun in your carry-case seems pretty obvious
to me - and I'm not working for security. The
5:15 just left - heads north towards Beacon, or
the Hudson River Line, I'm sure, not the Harlem
Line. Check the board, whatever. This is the last
Tuesday I'll be doing this business. Never again.
-
That guy gets out of a Lincoln like he was Dick Tracy
in 1958. Scientific secret watches, funny hats and tie,
all that outdated stuff. I ask why? Radio City Music
Hall always seemed like such a waste to me - ever
the art deco blemish, it just never seemed to work.
Half-risque bulbous bullshit : long-legged girls kicking
up their stuff while the midwives from Omaha clapped
and their husbands whacked. Life is so simple
when you live in the sitcks eating weeds.
-
Behind the newstand I see Lady Chatterley is eating
her lover. The guy on the mat, facing east - this is
true - is saying his prayers to Allah. This happens
all the time in New York City. One minute they're
selling dollar bananas to half-clothed girls, next minute
they're down on their knees on the mat praying. God
never forgives if Man never lives. How I see it anyway.
-
My notebook is a Haledron quarter folio, black.
I write : Herder's argument of History went 'It can
mean the kind of consciousness represented by a
specific kind of account...To be historical...an account
need not be of any specific occurence that had
actaully taken place.' Unlike the top of my head,
which really did come out of a birth canal.
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