door closed, and then I hear some kind of music downstairs, and laughter, the both of them, but kind laughter, no malice, and I did not know what to do, one did not expect the best, luck or people everybody failed you finally, well, and then the door opened, a pop of light, and there was Sanchez - "hey, Bubu, a bottle of good French wine-sip it slowly, do you most good.
you'll sleep.
be happy.
I won't say we love you, that's too easy.
and if you want to come downstairs, dance and sing, talk, o.k.
do what you want.
here's the wine." he hands me the bottle.
I lift it like some crazy cornet, again and again.
through a ripped curtain a part of the worn moon leaps.
it is a perfectly good night; it is not jail; it is far from that- in the morning when I awaken, go down to piss, come out from pissing, I find them both asleep on that narrow couch hardly enough for one body, but they are not one body and their faces together and asleep their bodies together and asleep, why be corny??? I only feel the tiny clutch at the throat, the automatic transmission blues of loveliness, that somebody has it, that they don't even hate me-that they even wish me what?- I walk out staunching and griefing and feeling and sick and blue and bukowski, old, starlit sun, my god, reaching into the final corner, the last midnight blast, cold Mr.
C., big H, Mary Mary, clean as a bug on the wall, the heat of December a brainweb across my everlasting spine, Mercy like Kerouac's dead baby sprawled across Mexican railroad tracks in the everlasting July of suck-off tombs, I maybe writing this down by myself, leaving a few things out (I have been threatened by various powerful forces for doing things that are only normal and gaga gladful to do) and I get into my eleven year old car and now I have driven away find myself here and write you here a little illegal story of love beyond myself but, perhaps, understandable to you.
