MY NIGHT JOURNAL AT THE RED GARTER

. . . . .

On the jukebox Johnny Cash casts his love sadness.
Night Rose in the window, the petals black and tender.

This evening In my lovelessness I search for a pair of green Meridian's. I buy a black rocker coat and a pair of purple corduroy's and a blackandpink Japanese surf shirt instead. Goddamn it nothing fits me but my fucking tightie whities, and it's all boutique and I didn't know it then, but NO EXCHANGE, NO REFUND, those fuckers at Wolf have all my money. It's the waste of it that hurts me, not buyer's remorse, but the self-destruction of commerce when I'd rather be getting naked to destroy myself like a fake rockstar. World of beautiful devastations, I distract myself with poverty and In the end I end up broke and here at the Red Garter alone.

Inside
The bartender takes off his shirt to show us some tattoo
and a canary pink nipple.
Oh Detroit, you sent us your man angel.

Paulina screams from the otherside --Mike, you're my Mangel!
Oh Paulina, do another bump.

Me with my coffee and a chocolate donut, texting Hugo.
FRIM looks through jpegs until he sees the the pic of my privates.

Night is the thorn attached to the rose.
I'm drinking from the dark window, where the print of the rose is


drinking from my absence.
The rose is Hekabe and the death of Polyxena:

"you will have to watch

her
fall forward
at the tomb
and spray red blood
from a blackbright hole

as it opens her throat wide."

Today I had a thirst that destroys. I will end myself and sleep.
"Down to the blacknesss below
where corpses lie--
I shall lie!
O!"

. . . . .