It was the night following your entrance, and the body beneath the skull was twenty one years and craving men (with this are you familiar?):
First let me describe the angst: There is DB Bear, he just sits in one place all day. He is kind to children but nasty to his wife––don't read that twice. Big about the nostrils. Sits in the corner chair with the stiff cat corpses but doesn't mean to be morbid. Anyway he brought about the fruit flies all over the house and thats why I took my foot through the front door. That and being hungry for (what I fool myself to think is) a mans lips but its really his children that don't exist.
I went to my car and was moved forty miles. I came to the room with one couch and four chairs. This room is capable of seating nine people comfortably and twenty four in an elbow pile. There are more people present than I can count by lookin at the foto frame btween my two front windows . . . I recall that four of those kids have dreadlocks (that's a quarter of the room). Of the lockd, there is South Fritter (he named himself), Cuppa Tea, Sleeves (who also mentions his real name, Steve, and I ask if that's wherefrom his nickname derives, and he says no, it is because he once wore shirt sleeves on his knees in Hoboken, and I ask how come the word knee aint a part of it, but it was too quick a remark and got lost between two talkers,) and there was Fat Lip whose elbows were also calloused and swollen red, I think he was just dehydrated. To each one of them I wave stiffly, and introduce my own name, and they give me skeptical eyes or maybe I was paranoid.
At this time I am aware that another person has entered into the house, but not the apartment. I thought about you, I am always thinking about you, as Jasmine talks about two crackheads outside of the door, and two hobos shooting heroin behind the dumpster. Kid stuff says Lambet, the loudest talker, my mom used to give me stories like that to scare, so its jes kid stuff from the diaper bag. Now you ought to go to the cemetery and take a nap over your grandmother, now that'll make you quiet.
And Jasmine gets defensive like she always does at Lambet, she doesn't even care whos around, she says, you don't think people bein tied to themselves is frightening?
People's always tied to themselves, says Mountain Brown, he says, try to pry whats honest and good from that fine flesh a yours, he reasons, this Mountain Brown from Commerce Town, who carries a pocket knife for cuttin bugs, and who has earned the right to be affectionate with women at all times and with every word, now he says to Jasmine, try to dig in through that flesh where there's an opening and set free your honest goodness . . . everything is crammed together . . . you can't find an opening, you have to make one . . . or I could make one in you.
Lets do some drugs, suggests a girl who seems to be of the age twelve but intuition and context reason otherwise. And when they say drugs they don't mean grass, nobody calls grass by that name anymore.
Frightened by the enterprise, I suggest I'll have some coffee for now, I say, and someone brings me a cup of tar, and when it goes into my mouth I begin choking, it is as thick as pudding and feels like mud. There is something moving in the back of my throat.
It has crickets, says Crack Crow, and I ease it down into my low gut, having had it explained to me.
"there is nothing more I hate than christ," says the one who is quiet usually, Hanover, who is shorter than most men and refuses to sit while everyone is sitting and sits down when they stand, and when I move my eyes to him his head turns equally as much toward the opposite direction, and I take it to mean he resents my height.
"I don't much mind christ," said Cumsy, "yeah, i don't much mind christ in bed."
and Suzy stands up and leaves, and now everyone knows her religion, and they go twice as hard, fueled by somethin I can't relate to.