perfect hate expressed in a perfect physical passivity, a perfect
attentiveness to dying, he’s going to say I’m a bad lay because I
w on ’t move but I hate him and I w on’t move. I just wait now
for him to come but he’s different, he w on’t come, he pushes
m y neck to hurt it and he kisses me, I feel his mouth on me,
he’s in me, sudden, brutal, unpleasant; vomitous; then he’s out
o f me, he’s kissing me, he kisses me everywhere, he rams into
me then he’s out, he’s kissing, he’s kissing my stomach, he’s
kissing m y legs, then he’s in me and m y thighs are pushed back
past m y shoulders, then he’s kissing me, he’s kissing m y anus
and licking it and he’s kissing my legs and he’s talking to me,
your skin reminds me o f Bridget’s, he says, Bridget has
beautiful skin, some whispering bullshit like I’m his lover or
his friend or something, conspiring with him, and then he’s
ramming him self in me and then he’s kissing me and I am
confused and afraid and I am paralyzed, I don’t move, I don’t
want to move, I w on’t move but also I can’t move, hate pins
me there flat, still, a perfect passivity, I think I am physically
real but my body’s incoherent to my own mind because I can’t
follow what he’s doing to me or what he wants, he’s doing it
to me but I don’t know what it is, there’s no organizing
principle, there’s no momentum or logic, I’m desperate for an
end but there’s no end, he’s brutal and cold and chaotic and I
say this will end but it doesn’t end, he rams, he kisses, I say this
is real, I am real, surely I am real, the physical reality is
overw helm ingly brutal and nasty, he tempers it, he thinks,
with these kisses, each one must be washed off, gotten off,
later, the skin must be gotten o ff later, gotten rid of, the cells
must be scraped off, I will need new skin, clean skin, because
he is expectorating all over me, I will need to rub and scrape, I
can use a knife or a stone, I’ll scrape it off, he’s in me, then he
withdraws, then he kisses, he kisses m y stomach, he kisses m y
feet— m y feet; he kisses m y legs, I feel a searing pain in m y leg,
I feel a terrible bad pain, I feel sharp shots o f pain, then he
rams, he kisses, he pushes, he pushes m y legs apart, he pushes
them back, he rams, he kisses, he must o f read a book, girls
like this, girls like that, you kiss girls, you kiss them; you kiss
them; he’s kissing me and saying things as if we are friends or I
know him or something and then he rams in, brutal bastard,
and then he’s a lover, kissing; and this is m y body but it ain’t, I
say it ain’t, I say it ain’t, I say I ain’t here and it ain’t me; but
time’s real — time is real— time’s real; there’s a long time until
dawn, there’s a couple o f hours until six and then there’s
m aybe an hour after that until there’s real light, you know,
sun, sun coming down from the sky, sun filtering down
through the cold, sun traveling down; heating up, even a little,
the streets, stone cold, steel-like daggers, the slab they lay you
out on; m y slab, a stone cold street; and a girl who wants to
live, such a girl, a girl who fucking wants to live doesn’t go out
until dawn, can’t go out until dawn; girls don’t go out at night;
girls who want to live don’t go out at night; you need light to
go out; you need sun; you need daylight; you need it to be a
little warmer, you need the edge o ff the cold, you need the
wind warmed up a little, you need it pale out, not dark, you
need it yellow or yellowish or even a flat silver or gray, a dull
gray, you need it gray or grayish or a dirty white at least, you
need it ash or a pale, pale blue as if it’s got a wash over it, a
watercolor wash, a greenish hue, or you need it to be pink, a
pinkish color, you need it pink, a little pink and a little warm ,
pinkish and warmish, you need light, you need light that’s
fresh and new, wholesome, washed in a subtle pastel color, a
pale hue, you need real light, honest light, well-established
light, not half dark, not stained by dark, not transitory or
illusory, you need it yellow from sun or even silver or gray,
you need it heated up, cozy, as if someone lit a match and
burned it to heat up the air, you need the sun m ixing with the
wind, a touch o f heat, you need it to be daytime if you’re a girl
so you can be safe and warm and at night you have to stay
inside so you w on’t get hurt; you don’t go out after dark; you
stay inside at night, you don’t be stupid and fuck up or some
stranger could hurt you, some bad man, a Nazi or some ghoul.
Y ou got to stay inside and if there’s a boy who likes you he’ll
sit next to you and he’ll kiss you and you can just stay with
him. Paul’s asleep. H e’s pinning me down, half on top o f me, a
lover but slightly displaced, half on me, half on the bed, it’s a
single bed, it’s been light a long time, two hours, three hours, I
watched the light come, it’s slow at first, then it’s sudden, it’s
pale today, a delicate yellow, a pale cold tone, I’m a student o f
light and time; my eyes are swollen open as if I saw something
that fixed them in place but I didn’t see nothing special, I
always wait with m y eyes open, I had them open, I didn’t close
them, it doesn’t help to close them, I waited for light but he
didn’t stop just because there was light, sometimes something’s important to you but it doesn’t matter to someone else
but you don’t know that, you don’t understand it, he lasted
well past the light and then he fell asleep without m oving
much, I wouldn’t have minded turning into a pumpkin but the
lovely lady had to stay at the ball, the beautiful princess loved
by the boy, he liked her so much; then he fell asleep without
m oving much, his body the full length o f mine, half on me,
half off, his arms holding onto me, one spread over me, dead
weight, one leg was spread over me, dead weight; and I was
completely still, I stayed completely still, except m y eyes
wander, and I decide I’m never going to lie down again, I’m
never going to lie down on m y back, I’m going to sit or I’m
going to stand up always from now on, in alleys or in
apartments or anywhere, and I try to move but I hurt, I am
filled with aches under m y skin, in m y bones, in m y joints, in
m y muscles, I’m stiff and I’m sore and then m y head’s
separate, it’s very big and there’s a thud in it, a bang, a buzz,
and there’s polka dots in the air, painted on, in the whole vast
room, dancing dots, black and navy blue, and he’s watching
me, I m ove slow ly and finally I am sitting, sitting on the edge
o f the bed, the single bed, sitting, chaste, just sitting, and m y
right leg is split open, the skin on it is split open in two places,
above m y knee and under m y knee, the skin’s torn, there’s big
jagged pieces o f skin, there’s gashes, it’s deep tears, deep cuts,
blood, dried blo
od and wet blood, m y leg’s torn open in tw o
places, his kisses, his lover’s kisses opened the skin, inside it’s
all angry looking as if it’s turning to a yellow or greenish pus,
it’s running with dirty, angry blood, I think it needs stitches
but I can’t get stitches and I’m scared o f gangrene, old ladies
get it on the street, winos get it when there’s sores, and I go to
wash it at the sink but it hurts too much and I think his water’s
dirty, I’m sure he has dirty water, it looks dirty, and the skin’s
splitting apart more, as if it’s a river running over land, and I
concentrate on getting out, finding m y clothes, putting on m y
clothes, they’re torn and fucked up, and I ask for the keys to
get out and he says something chatty and he smiles, it’s
English but I can’t exactly understand it so I nod or smile in a
neutral w ay and I think I’d better get out and he says see you or
see you again or see you soon, it’s English but it’s hard to
understand, I can’t make out the separate words, and I say
yeah, yeah, o f course, sure, and it doesn’t seem to be enough
so I say I’ll call, it seems better, it’s affirmative, he relaxes, he
smiles, he’s relaxed back into the bed, and I move, slow ly, not
to alarm him, not to stir him, not to call attention to myself, I
try to m ove the w ay they tell you with a book on your head,
smooth and calm and quiet, firm and fast and sure, ladylike,
self-abnegating, to disappear, and I take the keys and I go
down the steps, very slow, it’s hard, the blood from the gashes
is dripping down and the leg’s opening more and it hurts, it
hurts very much— if you spread your arms out full, that much,
or even more maybe. If it was a knife you could put the skin
back together and there wouldn’t be so many diseases, knives
are cleaner, this w on’t go back together, it’s ripped, it’s too
torn, it’s dirty, some special dirt, it’s named after him, this
dirt, it’s called Paulie, I named it after him; and I leave the keys
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
raped me worse than cheated on you? I got some change, some
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, you want their
eyes on the ball, always on the ball, you want them playing
ball; so you get small and quiet walking by, you don’t let
nothing rattle or shake, you just blend, into the sidewalk, into
the air, get gray like the fence, it’s wire, shaky, partly walling
beat too loud; and there’s a parking lot for cops right next to
the basketball, not the official vehicles but the cars they come
to work in, the banged up C hevys and Fords they drive in
from the suburbs because most o f them don’t live here no
more but still, even though they got more money than they
make you don’t see nothing smart and sleek, there’s just this
old metal, bulky, heavy, discolored. The young cops are tight
and you don’t want to see them spring loose, their muscles are
all screwed together real tight and their lips are tight, sewed
tight, and they stand straight and tight and they look ahead,
not around, their pupils are tight in the dead center o f their
eyes staring straight ahead; and the older ones wear cheap
sports jackets too big for them, gray, brown, sort o f plaid,
nearly tweed, wrinkled, and their shoulders sag, and they are
morose men, and their cars can barely hold them, their legs fall
out loose and disorganized and then they move their bodies
around to be in the same direction as the legs that fell down,
they m ove the trunks o f their bodies from behind the steering
wheels against gravity and disregarding common sense and
the air moves out o f the way, sluggish and slow, displaced by
their hanging bellies, and they are tired men, and they see
everything, they have eyes that circle the globe, insect eyes
and third eyes, they see in front and behind and on each side,
their eyes spin without m oving, and they see you no matter
how blank and quiet you are, they see you sneaking by, and
they wonder w hy you are sneaking and what you have to hide,
they note that you are trash, they have the view that anything
female on this street is a piece o f gash, an open wound inviting
you in for a few
pennies, and that you especially who are
walking by them now have committed innumerable evils for
which you must pay and you want to argue except for the fact
that they are not far from wrong, it is not an argument you can
win, and that makes you angrier against them and fearful, and
you try to disappear but they see you, they always see you; and
you learn not to think they are fools; they will get around to
you; today, tom orrow, someday soon; and they see the boys
playing basketball and they want to smash them, smash their
fucking heads in, but they’re too old to smash them and they
can’t use their guns, not yet, not now; even the young cops
couldn’t smash them fair, they’re too rigid, too slow up
against the driving rage o f the boys with the ball; so you see
them noting it, noting that they got a grudge, and the cars are
parked on gravel and broken glass and rocks and they should
have better and they know it but they don’t and they w o n ’t
and later they get to use the guns, somewhere, the city’s full o f
fast black boys who get separated from the pack; and you hear
the fuck, shit, asshole, o f the basketball players as a counterpoint to the solitary fuck, shit, asshole, o f the lone cops as they emerge from their cars, they put down their heavy legs and
their heavy feet in their bad old shoes, all worn, chewed
leather, and they pull themselves out o f their old cars, and
they’re tired men, overweight, there ain’t many young ones at
all, and there’s a peculiar sadness to them, the fascists are
melancholy in Gotham, they say fuck, shit, asshole, like it’s
soliloquies, like it’s prayers, like it’s amen, like it’s exegesis on
existence, like it’s unanswered questions, urgent, eloquent,
articulated to God; lonely, tired old Nazis, more like Hamlet,
though, than like Lear, introspective from exhaustion, not
grand or arrogant or merciless in delusion; and the boys hurl
the ball like it’s bombs, like it’s rocks and stones, like it’s
bullets and they’re the machines o f delivery, the weapons o f
death, machine guns o f flesh, bang bang bang, each round so