Once more drunk, never focused.

The Korean soap opera took a left turn today. Incredibly downplayed. Esukuya and her goddamn husband. I'm convinced the subtitles are way off. They're too terse, Hemingway style. But she married into that family so that's what she gets. Show over. On to the subtitled French news. "Rioting" in Paris. Fuck Paris. Paris hasn't been worth a damn since the French New Wave. Unrest in Paris. Let's be honest, the French can't riot. Their last riot went so well because it was mostly pissed off young Muslims. Not that I have any hate for the French. Beautiful language, beautiful women, beautiful culture, beautiful wine. But it's fun to bash them. Just like they have a whale of a time going on with their stereotypical American etceteras.

Another one of my short stories was rejected, the editor calling it "too experimental for our magazine". And my roommate Rick was turned down for a studio at the bigtime downtown artist space. So we went on a raid. Theft of steaks and Velveeta. Then whiskey. Fuck the American dollar. Drunk IMs:

TragedyMachine [3:32 PM]: there's no goddamn need for all the greatest books in the world to be about cocksuckers over 40
TragedyMachine [3:33 PM]: here's the shit-infested conundrum: all the great books are written by people over 40 who say that people in their 20's have nothing worthwhile to say. but what are all the great books about? people in their 40's writing about what happened to them in their 20's.
TragedyMachine [3:33 PM]: im not going to wait 20 years to write about whats happening to me NOW.
TragedyMachine [3:33 PM]: i'm burning down random house
TragedyMachine [3:33 PM]: i'm burning down harper collins
Beat Pervert [3:33 PM]: haha do it
TragedyMachine [3:34 PM]: i call for the death of American literature
Beat Pervert [3:44 PM]: paris is rioting

I remember St. Louis this time last year. Chino and his girl Wendy and D.B. coming in on a late-night freight and me pushing my American car another handful of miles from losing my job in Tulsa. All of us, kinetic in energy, holed up in Chino's downtown place. Vodka and milkshakes, someone getting their hands on peyote, long nights writing on the front porch while D.B. raps along to Kurtis Blow then switching to The Clash. And we could hear Chino and Wendy fuck like rabbits three floors up. Breeze off the Mississippi. And I made my spicy scrambled eggs and ham every morning. And then we all parted ways: Chino to LA, Wendy to Toronto, D.B. to Wyoming and me on my way back east to the mid-Atlantic comfort zone.

Pink Floyd records keep the balance in my head. My record player needs a new needle. I've got six dollars in my pocket but the rent's been paid. A week until we lose the electricity. And this chick is playing me for a fool, and goddammit I'll let her. She keeps the bed warm most nights. She won't last long. I leave for Mexico soon. She doesn't need to know.

My dick hasn't fallen off. I can still use my legs. I just ate a sandwich. All is well.

Onward.

-I saw it in a passing cloud.