I am waiting for the sun and the object to make a new shadow.
Yet—horror upon horror finally and almost brings a plateau of calm reason in the face of anything. Of course, the disgusting thing is that one ends up with a mop, cleaning a latrine, when the inner part is ready to walk up the sides of mountains. But complaint is only a surly bitch crying for more and better luck, luck without the loss of pawns or blood. One cannot learn without bleeding.
I can’t get a hard-on over what the Pope brushes his teeth with or how the Kremlin rattles the dice, or the basis of the monetary system. I have been in the economics classes and I have sat with Jewish tailors and Italian pharmacists over candlelight and plotted the overthrow of a tottering dynasty. It all creamed me well in my twenties and meant something, as the tanks coming down the road in the middle of the butterflies means something, as 30 dogs and twenty men on 20 horses chasing one fox... means something. Everything means something. (...) I met a man in a Gardena poker parlor the other night who thought the same thing.
I am going to carve my pure innocence, I am going to carve as the tanks come down the road and they will blow me to hell and my carvings to hell and they will laugh, but I will have carved what I needed to carve and sop from the Kremlin will not have ordered the laughter of my knife, or say the dictates of some halfdead facisti order hidden in some mountain-side like a tick on a hunk of capitalist cattle…
baby, I can’t get with the race war, church war, state war kick. I know that getting my balls in the wringer would give me a feeling of usefulness but usefulness is often a pancrea of setting down the tableknife you have been hacking away a new face you have been chipping into a stone you found in the street. Hell, I am a horseplayer, and I can smell action and manipulation, and my innocence is chosen, not thrust upon me. I know the church-boy’s game. But here is the fact. I have written some poems.