Some tiny hammers
pounding that soft patch on the top
of my cranium:
The movie ÒWithnail
& IÓ
Accidental fixation on
black non-stretch Levis, too small in
the
waist and too big in the thigh
Rereading Miss
Lonely-hearts and identifying
thoroughly
The smell of getting hit
on the back of the head (brain cells
dying?
Ammonia?)
Consecutive, vivid
nightmares: doing heroin with a preppy
acquaintance,
then seeing Alice with a Korean nose
job
The feeling of going
crazy, of course, is the surest sign that
I am not. It is when the
petty vulgarities of the world cease
to register that I fear
most for my brain.
