with Bill Vartnaw & Tim Jacobs
The table slides across the floor The sound of silver on ceramic cups water falling past the pimp, and getting up the air conditioned whores with their plastic pants spread across their buns and their self-respect increased beyond proper measure by caffeine, a sigh, a sip, in a profusion of murmurs like a leaf in a well-leaved plant in smoke a confusion of eyes to guess the circumference, the reply: Not me, But always me, always formica stained in places brown, the pristine look, the silver base of grease, and faces, giving: way, away this pleasant, lie-ing afternoon in which the sordid air, ashes of the cigarette, books ill-used, the indecency of thought, ill-used, on the make, considered, ill-considered doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter not one iota . . . and yet Io, moon goddess with a slash, a perfect O preceded by a wall, the blankness there before and after
8 March 1980, At the Med