how and do it to me now; instead o f just waiting until he does
it and he’s gone. Y ou got to be mad at them perpetually and
forever and fierce and you got to know that you got a cunt and
that’s it. Y ou want philosophy and you’re dumb and dead;
you want true love and real romance, the same. Y ou put your
hand between them and your twat and you got a chance; you
use it like it’s a muscle, sinew and grease, a gun, a knife; you
grab and twist and turn and stare him in the eye, smile, he’s
already losing because you got there first, between his legs; his
thing’s in your fist and your fist is closing on him fast and he’s
got a failure o f nerve for one second, a pause, a gulp, one
second, disarmed, unsure, long enough so he doesn’t know ,
can’t remember, how mean he is; and then you have to take
him into you, o f course, yo u ’ve given your word; there on the
cement or in a shadow or some room; a shadow ’s warm and
dark and consoling and no one can close the door on you and
lock you in; you don’t go with him somewhere unless you got
a feeling for him because you never know what they’ll do; you
go for the edge, a feeling, it’s worth the risk; you learn what
they want, early, easy, it’s not hard, you can ride the energy
they give out or see it in how they m ove or read it o ff their
hips; or you can guide them, there’s never enough blow jo b s
they had to make them tired o f it i f worse comes to worse and
you need to, it will make him stupid and weak but sometimes
he’s mean after because he’s sure yo u ’re dirt, anyone w h o ’s
had him in her mouth is dirt, how do they get by, these guys,
so low and mean. It’s you, him, midnight, cement; viscous
dark, slate gray bed, light falling down from tarnished bulbs
above you; neon somewhere rattling, shaking, static shocks to
your eye, flash, zing, zip, winding words, a long poem in
flickering light; what is neon and how did it get into the sky at
night? The great gray poet talked it but he didn’t have to do it.
He was a shithead. I’m the real poet o f everyone; the Am erikan
democrat on cement, with everyone; it wears you down,
Walt; I don’t like poetry anymore; it’s semen, you great gray
clod, not some fraternal wave o f democratic j o y . I was born in
1946 down the street from where Walt Whitman lived; the girl
he never wanted, I can face it now; in Cam den, the great gray
city; on great gray cement, broken, bleeding, the girls
squashed down on it, the fuck weighing down on top,
pushing in behind; blood staining the gravel, mine not his;
bullshitter poet, great gray bullshitter; having all the men in
the world, and all the wom en, hard, real, true, it wears you
down, great gray virgin with fantastic dreams, you great gray
fool. I was born in 1946 down the street from where Walt
