scene two..

i am trying to think of somehthing to write for my friend Asif's memorial on saturday..i only drink beer and leer....cry and then sigh...all these things are starting to sound the same. i need a friend like Asif. to write with me.... here is one of the la

long lingering the four train demonic wait in wrestlessness,

cat piss blanket covered in the  plaid stripes of someone elses history

every choice i made to this station in life has led to a life that was never my own

,

and the real moments of life return to me when the kansas skies were low and held that familiar soft sheet evening blue, where the clouds were inhaled with every breath

exhaled in conversations to red brick sidewalks never leading to exact purpose.

 sitting in the green and yellow easy chair snug in the north corner of my room - next to the large double window, open and whispering,

there i built my library of theology and philosophy,

and created madness in the vomit filled mornings with an ancient typewriter,

there i petted the fur of my darling cat, laid my hands in chalk and charcoal and the paints of my own imagination, took in the bodies of mel and jordan - as their angel of older brotherhood and comfort....and when they were gone the next night i would find the open thighs  of a gorgeous barfly who would actually love me, and i would tast the  juice on my chin the entire next day. . . .

there was dancing in the rain and stories grand for the boys and girls of lawrence, kansas then...the door was open for the poet and creator...so they could invent an evening of confusion and fury, fevers were determined and treated with whiskey, (beam, williams, jack, generic) laughter around the grill,  bbq chicken and sweat...and endless labor. .

the bookstore was torn apart with the hands of my eager learning mind, and the brain cells death toll was too immmmmmense to rememeber all of the information cumming inside the cranium, so the books all were marked and the notes were posted in scotch tape on the walls, every corner, and there was the smell of rolled tobacco cigarettes, and cured pipe tobacco laying flat against the walls and every surface in the room....and the only history i kept was the history of the world and its fall from heaven and god,

   however learning,

 that this - this is heaven ,

 and that we are all dead all ready,

 and some of us like me, are dead to ourselves and are trying to revive the heart that pounds like the volcanic vocab of james joyce........... ........

Author's Note

what is for din din?