Recovering? (Plus some contact info for those who’d like)

People are telling me my eye looks better. That’s good. I wish my soul felt better. It doesn’t. My right hand, which I about broke off trying to pound Gumboy Fuckball in the head, is feeling better. No longer swollen, anyway. So now I settle in with MSNBC and wine, happy in the knowledge that one more idiot’s been run off the boulevard. Sometimes you have to take what comes, and take whatever small comfort that comes.

So, yeah, I’m feeling better and here’s a note: I know now where I stand re: America, not that I’ve changed my mind at all. One day I’ll go home, and THEN….we’ll have a story to tell, won’t we?

CONTACT INFO FOR THOSE WHO’D LIKE: 310-566-5230, ex. 1024. If you call me, I’ll call you right back. A mad world, this. No kidding. But BE SURE I’m writing. We’re at the 20-draft mark for a new collection (raw as freshly-masturbated cock, but….), and now I have what I’m calling the Bloodied Notebook for the marks I left when I picked it up with my right hand.

For all that, though, I remember Ginsberg’s account of assault and there’s no doubt I fell short of his standard. That does not give me pleasure, trust me. Oh, sure, I’ll heal up soon, no worries. And now li’l ol’ Gumboy Fuckball might by now have gotten back to Chicago having travelled the whole way on foot, making the Sidewalk Café the same boistrous but pleasant place it has been heretofore.

A lovely thing, I think.

We all have our ways of standing up—to a drunken idiot, to the strangest, most wrong turns of life imaginable, whatever it might be—and I have mine. But I tell you this, dear folks: I go back to the bar where it all started, and haven’t seen him since. Oh, well. There’s been a lovely little plan for his return which I truly hope will come through although if it doesn’t, let’s just jot it down to cowardice. Ah this guy, his re-written (MARK, again) “Heavy-Metal Anthem” “American Whore,” his tequila regimen, and OH MY GOD his harangue about his one great masterwork. It was rich. Off-the-chain, mad-dog crazy, but nonetheless rich. Was it worth a broken orbital? Meh. But what a story. America never fails to impress me for its madness.

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About johnwylam1957

I'm a poet and teacher now living in Toronto, Ontario, Canada.
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