From: sejohnst@midway.uchicago.edu
Subject: Re: [paying my debts of obligatory stories] 1.1 (-ah,maybe it’ll even arrive)[or, connection troubles in the flat-lands]
Date: October 30, 1998 12:11:48 PM CST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com, mrvisible@worldnet.att.net, houseofthe2palms@hotmail.com, shorning@willamette.edu, scoobear@net-link.net, exit2k@hotmail.com, and 3 more…
chicago is grey.
there are screams coming from the dumpster.
not as loud as the screams coming from inside my head.
there’s a naked boy sleeping on my bed.
and i don’t know what to do with him.
after we fucked i fell asleep crying.
i told him i made a huge mistake when i was 17.
and that it kicked me in my tummy when i was 18.
& now i am 19 and lamenting.
aye. i. aye.
so i sat on my bed, a fetal ball, crying and wishing for more
almonds.
and i thought that i had found the boy in green pants, with lots of
books, and subversive ideas again. only his pants were on my
bedroom floor, the books i had all read, and the ideas didn’t
ascribe to the law of utility, to the principle of offense.
so i realized that there is no boy in the world who will speak
with prizes and still feel good deep between my legs.
crying on my bed. telling the sleeping boy how i wished i could
talk to dominic but that i didn’t know where the fuck he was.
[remembering when i didn’t know how to attack and he taught me
to strike.]
[remembering when i didn’t bleed and he gave me tests and tea.]
[remembering when i couldn’t speak and he fed me my voice.]
aye. i. aye.
all these things flew into my head right then.
the mice help maybe. the rats, the token mobsters.
i realized this past domingo [in toronto, fie] that i couldn’t be stationary.
i realized just yesterday that i couldn’t be on bottom.
i realized that bleeding is normal, and inhaling is foul,
that remembrance is cruel and letters ought be burned.
but there are many boys with my letters [pues, just three] and only one
knew how to read. but he wasn’t my dividend for the moment, for me.
and i thought of ginger, dates, plums, and my tea cup.
and i thought of mister dominic.
and i teared for an hour.
but the naked boy sleeping on my bed didn’t wake up. i tried to tear
quietly so that i wouldn’t have to explain….
that i don’t love him and i don’t believe in love.
and i gave it to one boy erroneously, only to realize later that i had sent
it home in afghan’s pocket. (we like to say it’s a lack of free will
but you just ask mr. carpenter about that)
oh friENDs, friENDs, friENDs, friend. it’s only friend with a few.
aye. i. aye.
no. i keep mister dominic under me skin.
i wish i could hear his voice, he makes me tear. i want the both of us to
shrink up and then put ourselves in water again. i know a lot about mercury
and vibrational modes. i can speak in tongues about the harm principle, its
conflict and faults. off to the auto-icon with hammers and wrenches. lots
and lots of pipes. really heavy pipes…{it’s me first pilgrimage}
[let’s absorb some heat.]
miss bentham. miss him a lot. pero no esta aqui…
so everyone coach me in telling someone who loves me that love doesn’t exist.
and i’ll shove him on the floor and put afghan into my pears .
i’m learning. i’m learning.
i’m still tearing.
{miss you mister d….}
aye. i. aye….i.