Sneezing Thru it.

 

I’ve been breezing through an issue of Gaucho Magazine, a special issue lorded over by a lady editor and poetess featuring the work of convict poets. The big-time gal comments rather harshly saying,

these men failed to rise, seemingly, above their circumstances. All they write about is wanting to get out of jail, and why they shouldn’t be there.

Her highness should try— sitting in the can for years and not getting out, not looking at the stars at night, being powerless to sneak away to a corner bar for a shot of whiskey. 

Does she know what it means to walk back and forth in the same cell no matter what you say or yell out to your keeper? Or, what's it's like to live in a cell, knowing the only way out is death or insanity?

Unless you've been to jail, you can't know what it's like.

I'm at home in bed, not in jail. Millions of men and women in the world are doing time as this story's being told.

God bless the blind poets and poetesses doing time because they can’t look up at the moon for inspiration.

God bless your computer and typewriter— they are faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I’ve been reading William S. Burrough's book Naked Lunch, and I gotta fix on how Bill writes, the process of it.

 

Old Ray Lee gets up from the sofa and walks to the rotting wood-framed window of his apartment on West 11th and 63 Street, closing the flower print curtains, then going to his desk and sitting down, relaxing, then fixing easy with a surgeon's steady hand.

William corkscrews into the land of nod, riding a magic carpet through the misty air only junkies breathe. In Naked Lunch, he writes about boys, he admires them.

A boy came in and sat at the counter in broken lines of long, sick junk-wait. The Sailor shivered. His face fuzzed out of focus in a shuddering brown mist. His hands moved on the table, reading the boy’s Braille. His eyes traced little dips and circles, following whorls of brown hair on the boy’s neck in a slow, searching movement.

Ray Lee writes selfishly in Naked Lunch, showing off, writing about opium dreams.  

Junky reads even better than Lunch, it’s Burroughs talking about the street and scoring in more concrete terms.

I've had writer's block for the past week, things are blurry. When you can't write you you feel washed up. 

TODAY'S  different, I'm typing at the speed of sound.

Last night was burning hot.

Have you met your soulmate in a dream? The Book of Dreams says soulmate dreams signal newfound love.

When soulmates have wet dreams, in a dream, and cum together. That's LOVE.

There is nothing as immaculate as a wet dream. 

Nevertheless, the American Medical Association macerates wet dreams labeling night emissions industrial diseases, reporting the following—

Some people believe that wet dreams reduce the size of the person’s penis, or can cause clitoral shrinkage. However, there is no scientific evidence for this.

There are no illnesses, conditions, or natural occurrences that will cause the male reproductive organ to shrink. 

While masturbation may reduce the number of wet dreams a person experiences, it does not guarantee a person will never experience them.

Evidence linking masturbation and wet dreams is lacking, but a person can experiment to see if it helps in their situation.

Try masturbating before bed for a week or more, followed by the same length of time without masturbating, to see if there is a difference in the frequency of wet dreams. 

Por el amor de Cristo, the American Medical Association is a gaggle of fist-fuckers.

Jack Kerouac penned Vanity of Dulouz while he worked as a cub reporter in Lowell, Massachusetts before going to Columbia University on a football scholarship.

A few decades later, during an NPR interview, he reminisced about the novel, his first, written when he was in high school.

At noon when everyone left the tacking editorial office, and I was alone, I snuck out the pages of my secret novel and continued writing it. It was the greatest fun I ever had, writing, in my life because I had just discovered James Joyce and I was imitating Ulysses, trying to write stream of consciousness. It was about the day-to-day doings of nothing in particular of Bob, me, Pater my Pa, the sportswriters on the Sun, all my buddies down at the saloons at night, the girls I went out with, and the movies I saw.

South of Lowell in Key West Florida, my Cuban wife Lucia is on a fucking spree, we're in an open relationship.

A lot of the regular women at Dog Beach have hard feelings for Dirk the lifeguard, his body's tan and laced with sinew muscle like a Kentucky Derby thoroughbred. 

It's no surprise that Lucia ran away with Dirk— the quick lovers are doin the horizontal polka at the Fountainbleau as we speak.

I could say I don’t care but I do, when we agreed to have an open marriage, I was drunk and would have agreed to anything and now I’m stuck with the deal. 

Dog Day Afternoon's on TV: Lucia looks radiant as she walks into the living room. I ask her,

how was Dirk the Lifeguard? 

I missed you Henry, doing the bolo with Dirk the Lifeguard wasn't much fun, he has body oder.

Not fun, but fun, right? So how big was his cock? 

It was just an itty bitty cock, you are hung like a burro next to him. Turn off the TV, let’s smoke marihuana in the hot tub, and hump like conejos on the patio lawn. 

While humping Lucia in the backyard I wondered— if Sal and Sonny escaped to paradise on the jet plane? Where they shot by Murphy the FBI agent? Were they sent to Riker’s Island? Did Sonny live happily ever after with his androgynous wife Maria? 

Later, in a few days, I forgot about the film and fucking Lucia.

Sometimes things you think are epoch-making at the time ain't much at all in THE END—