Issue 60, Winter 1974
It is a runny night. Wind blows and the rain falls. I sit growling. My pad is in my hand and the stub of a pencil. Nothing comes. I eat Oreos. Each fattens me. Fat encases me. I will smother under lard at this rate. But they keep me from smoking. If I smoke my lungs will give out.
Where is my collaborator? I hate her. Oh, yes, she is with Vonsky. It is Wednesday, isn’t it, the hump of the week. And it is her night with the wise bone, the varicose immortal. That bitch. What do I care? She is getting input she says without giving output. Without putting out. What a devil. Do I believe her story? Yes, yes. For reasons of need? For reasons of ego? No, no. Because it is true. She is cold as a cube. Beware, Titanic. Toot your horn in panic. Telegrapher, do not go to sleep. Lifebelts, everybody. Get ready for a salty taste!
Why do I collaborate with her? She doesn’t contribute. I despise her ideas. I hate her attempts at prose. She has no right even to be in the New School. Much less collab…