March 2000: I am a young idiot/poet, composing at 3 am as trains go by my place of
work. I smoke, but am not a smoker, drink, and am a drinker. I make a fool
of love, a fool of myself, and in general am happy to be a fool. I blame no
one but myself, survived by friends, as each week I pull a Phoenix routine
(William Tell routine done solo, see ruminations of Will Lee).
June 2001 (additional information): ....Currently working as a sawyer at a truss factory, living in a
small dilapidated shack. Continued attempts at starting a
novel are constantly foiled by 60 hr work week. Thus, no
novel, some poetry, and the occasional acid flashback.
Go to "Lebenswelt American Life-World Writing"
Go to "R., my dear"
Go to "Cigarette Dangles, Waiting, Precious"