I’ve been feeling a strong connection with George Orwell as of late. With his meandering male characters in minor narratives about worthless occupations in a tumultuos world. Men who have barely six pence in their pockets and a knack for homely appearences. Struggling to keep on keeping on while the world fiddles with war and economic collapse. Hell, I ain’t got but my corduroys on my legs and an empty bag of tricks. Lugging around these novels and staring into a newspaper mirror. Working poor, can’t paint anymore, counting my last few cigarettes and living on soup. Things most likely aren’t that bad but they might as well be when you can’t seem to find that next corner to turn anywhere you look.

When I was twenty I smoked Gaulois blondes (new cigarette tax hurts America) on an autumn porch pretending a fancy French romance. Nowadays I know that it was in my blood, Motown-gonna remember that.

These autumn months have been long and rolling. I have been used up while driving, challenged to fights, and run down by wild mares. I have sought a viable third party and witnessed a sexy dentist drilling into my tooth. Wicked lucid dreams have left me tempered many mornings with feelings of guilt and doubt and my bed smells so different. Now I am not one to make demands nor am I someone who makes a fuss. But I think I want a small dog to keep me company and to be free from here on out. Please all you people put Chester Himes on your reading list.

It has been awhile and I am sorry for all three of you who care for my ludicrous gestures. Something came over me, left a mark, and now has been destroyed. I am in the process of creating a new pseudo persona in an effort to protect myself further.  All Best

Dear reader I have missed your ears and laughter. Anytime you wish to call me up just to string it along you feel free to do so. I have extra spider webs and many different phases of phases that we can share over cake.

So my progressive man crush dropped out of the race and I have this intense fear of satellite war ruining my outer space retirement plans. These things have kept any word smithing on my part to a minimum. I still glue shit to other more delectable shit here and there, but no po-ams in verse or otherwise.

“He seemed to be taking me toward some hideaway of the last happiness; and when I came I thought I would be holding hands with him someplace in the spirit, that we would have both turned to gases licking against one another’s nerves; we had that once and I always expected us to be there again and trusted him to get us there but he never did.”

Didi Sweet, Nightwatchmen B Hannah

The only joy is celebration for celebration’s sake
Reveling in hourly attempts to make it up

I know I am old
Maybe even now at middle age
But I will revere that whirlwind of Hooch and Hoochies

“I have felt of consequence to the universe only while drinking or at the moment of orgasm. These are lies too, I know, but good ones, an inkling.”

BH

Reckless? maybe
Boring? never

“And furthermore, if you want to talk about honesty. Such a premium on that word. Being absolutely honest. Come on: the vagina is the ugliest, ungainliest natural creation in the known world. Perhaps when they land on Mars they might find something uglier. It is a nightmare. That is gives pleasure, my friend, is an outright paradox, a sort of serendipity out of foulness. Hell, women know this. What a laugh to read all these lyrical hypocrites shouting that this is not true. Men most of them! Willfully bliss with those wide honest eyes.”

B. Hannah from Geronimo Rex