like he told me inside the door in the hall on the floor, it’s
unlocked now, the door’s open, I walk out and it’s deserted,
cold, bare, bare city streets, calm, no wind, a perfect, pure,
clean cold, cold enough to kill the germs on m y leg, it’ll freeze
them and they’ll die, I think it must be the case, if you can kill
them through heat, sterilization, you must be able to kill them
through cold, I think the damaged tissue’s already freezing and
the germs are dying or they will and it’s good there’s no wind
because if anything moves my leg screams, the skin screams,
it’s like a flashfire ignited up my leg, a napalm exploding on
me; and he’s sleeping upstairs, he’s in bed, he didn’t get out o f
bed, he’s asleep, he was back asleep almost before I left, he
seemed to be waiting for me to kiss him goodbye or good
morning or hello, I said I’ll call and he relaxed back into bed, I
stared, I made m yself move, I moved fast, quiet, which is w hy
they teach you to walk with a book on your head, you walk
quiet, with poise, you have a straight back, you take firm,
quiet steps, and I wish someone would go up now while he’s
asleep and kill him or rob him, I wish I could put a sign on the
door— it’s open, kill him, rob him, I think there’s some
chance, it’s a bad neighborhood, maybe som ebody’ll find
him. I’m dirty; all m y clothes are torn and fucked up as if they
were urinated on or wrapped in a ball and used to wipe
someone’s ass. I call Jill from a pay phone. He raped me, I say.
H e’s not the milk o f human kindness she says and hangs up; is
quarters, some dimes, m y favorite, half dollars, they’re pretty
like silver, I like them. She knew it was bad; raped me. The
earth’s round but the streets are flat. There’s rain forests but
the streets are cold. I can’t really say I understand. It’s ten a. m.
I’m tw enty-six years old. I got a wound on m y leg, a nasty
sore, dirty fucking sore from a rabid dog, slobbering m angy
cur, an old bag lady’s sore, ugly fucking sore; maybe the
A . S . P . C . A . ’d come and get him. I could use a drink. I got to
sleep before there’s night, it comes fast in winter, you lose
track. It’s ten a. m .; and soon it will be ten-o-five; soon. Y ou
have to count fast, keep counting, to keep track. U g ly,
fucking, stupid bitch, got to sleep, can’t lie down. There’s
fleas.
N I N E
In October 1973
(Age 27)
There’s a basketball court next to where I live, not a court
exactly, a hoop high up, and broken cement, rocks, broken
glass; there’s boys that play, the game ain’t ballet like on
television, it’s malice, they smash the ball like they’re smashing heads and you don’t want to distract them,
