“You gotta write your way out.” “The only way out is through.” dear diary, shit’s gotten fucked up, i can’t remember if I was playing and forgot to say just kidding, but now i’m on pills for reals… i’m seeing 6 doctors and doing insane asylums like i’m on tour; the crazies are the only ones left sill pure. once Tom showed up at the backroom poets in NL, tweaked out on a bottle of Benzedrine. he told everyone the truth, he said, “that was bullshit. There is more fear in here than there is passion.” I fantasized punching him right in his dentures. the truth is painful, only in so far as it reveals the unimaginable; Tom forgot it. they asked him to leave; they feared it. fuck him even if he was right, saying you’re sad ought to be said every night. the crazies work at building bombs, insanely inventing smart ones, deranged in meetings discussing kill radius. the crazies see nothing wrong in this utter despoliation of humanity until its impossible to be less fearful than it is to be passionate about love.
screaming at low volumes
