LITMIR.BIZ

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can’t let them villains off scot-free?

      Why Scot? Why not Swats, or Cot, Pot, Rot, Sot, slut, spot, shot, trot free—

      Any case, they tend to overplay a hand. Ninety-nine percent bilious weasels.

      It’s slappable—and who is here now?—best I can—got it back.

      You never really have it till you lose it, Fritz. Till you lose it and then get it back. Few make it back from that track, Jack.

      “As to what life may be worth when the honor is gone ….”

      (French Naval officer in Lord Jim. One of the great characters of fiction.)

      And look at the others by Conrad: Councillor Mikulin from Under Western Eyes, the Nigger “Wait” from Nigger of the Narcissus. All touched with [the] hand of creation.

      Many others of course, maybe just a walk-on.

      Brion Gysin hated Denton Welch. Didn’t see that it is just the petulant queerness in which he is straitjacketed—“Little Punky”—that makes his works such a great escape act.

      Yes, for all of us in the Shakespeare Squadron, writing is just that: not an escape from reality, but an attempt to change reality, so [the] writer can escape the limits of reality.

      The unworthies in power feel danger, like cows uneasily pawing the ground with a great “Moo.”

      The song of the quick

      that is heard by the ears of the dead

      the widows of Langley are loud in their wail

      and the idols are broken in the temples of Yale

      for the might of the Board

      unsmote by the sword

      has melted like snow

      in the glance of the bored

      Ho hum—

      to look death in the eye,

      with no posturing lie,

      just one on one …

      who lives will see.

      Is Death an organism?

      Way down in Tierra del Fuego—a lot of Eukodol ampules.

      This horror of drugs, orchestrated by Hearst and his “yellow peril,” then Anslinger—Harrison Narcotics Act—criminals by Act of Congress. You can’t compare alcohol, cigarettes to narcotics. Why not? Because alcohol and tobacco are legal, that’s why. What nonsense is here.

      What they really can’t understand is division, possession—or perhaps they understand all too well, and do not want [it] examined.

      Tell any feminist I shot Joan in a state of possession, and she will scream:

      “Nonsense! No such thing. HE did it.”

      Opera of the Angler Fish that absorbs the male till nothing is left of him but his testicles, balls, nuts, sticking out of her body.

      All of me

      why not take

      all of me

      so we become

      one big WE

      how great to be

      one great fat me

      Excuse me:

      include me out.

      December 5, 1996. Thursday

      Now imagine a woman dancing out rug rat?

      Well, it was like he was dancing [it] out in terrible agony, something in his spine, and the smell of rotten crabs, sweet gagging stench of excrement—and death.

      After the shot he collapsed on the bed and lay there inert, but something was stirring in his spine from neck to the tail—and now pieces tore loose in the eggs and then a red, glistening head emerges in reeking yellow slime—and then the whole centipede, crawling out quick.

      I got out my Detective Special. Then, moving with hideous speed and purpose, it scuttled through [the] ballroom screen.

      “Head it off. Must kill it.”

      Too late, I turn back to the empty chrysalis of the body that once had been Parker, and even as I watched, the very flesh and bones disintegrated into a lost ballpoint pen on the floor.

      Oh here it is—on the bed.

      So.

      December 8, 1996. Sunday

      Dream last night that I was in a cubicle room with mosquitoes. (According to the news, Nov. 26, 1996: dreams of insects on one can precede a deadly illness. Recall another recent dream of biting flies.)

      I take train for Manhattan. Got off at 10th Street. Can I walk from here to where?

      Dec 9, 1986—hum—I mean ’96

      Check back on this date ten years ago.

      In Paul’s dream we see a potential scenario, which should be indicated by a special mode or style—screaming in all languages known and unknown, suddenly cut off—dimmed down—old man with cat. Has 1890s look:

      “Is it the end, Holmes?”

      “’Fraid so, old chap. Tried to get a warning out. No one could believe it. I mean, they were designed not to believe it.”

      “What do you propose to do, Holmes?”

      “Nothing whatever, Watson. The time for intervention is gone.”

      Back to September 17, 1996:

      He steps to his modest balcony: to the sky, the powerful and rich of the earth on their knees beg his help.

      “Aw, why dontcha ask your mother,” he snarls into the big mic, for all to hear.

      The mob writhes forward, hands clasped in the [begging posture].

      “Please—”

      “‘These are unsightly tricks,’ in the words of the Immortal Bard.”

      Fear! What is fear of. What is subject afraid of? The unknown?

      Of course not. The half-known, the you-don’t-want-to-know. And what is that?

      A reed in water—hieroglyph for “?”

      Endangered hats on female heads shift in winds of instant fashion. Wives trail by each other at cocktails, vernissages, faster, faster—

      “Off the track! Off the track!” Great chunks of suburban houses tilt, slide, crumble.

      Present time feeling of being deracinated, without roots—moving—(someone just called for Jim Patterson. Wrong Jim. McCrary? Sorry)—moving where?

      Mutie cat holds out paw as if to restrain me. Now she is purring round my feet. Took food to Ginger on front porch.

      A sudden rent in the sky, clouds pulled in—the hole is more “real” than the sky.

      December 11, 1996

      Let the little growth on my head rest. It is an inoperable, benign, nonentity. So let it stay like that. If the soft machine works, don’t fix it. If it works, don’t fix it.

      The words under the words, bubbling up with a belch of coal gas:

      “We are—They are—come on! Hit! Hit!”

      He cowered there, nursing the welt inflicted.

      December 12, 1996

      Story of the rich junky.

      I [was] described by a moron critic as the world’s richest ex-junky. If $1,500 in [the] bank and no other assets made me the richest.

      Had I been as rich as I would have been if my father had kept his Burroughs

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