Distribution Automatique

Wednesday, September 3

December 30, 1975

What are the words inside the words. Rage.
Babbling, speaking and talking-that it
sounds like, you know, always waiting.
A way to pass through this by filling
it with words. I remember what they were
to me. What are they now? Something
moved there, things were gathered. I wrote
no poetry (fear of abandonment) (abandonment)
no poetry. What I see are words inside
words. Rage. It's only one night. I saw
words. No voices. Finally no voices. You
don't have to suffer broken bones to love. Power.

January 15 (1975)

It seems impossible that I wrote in
here only two weeks ago. Tonight I
thought to call someone- P or P-
and say- why does there have to be
news? It's the same as history- why
there has to be history. I don't know
if the above date is exact and I
don't care. I wish there could be an
end to landmarks- to specifying
events. The thing I think is oddest
about me is that I don't care about
remembering things. I *want* to be
out of touch with time. It is possible,
particularly in solitude. In a frenzy
there wouldn't be time enough- and
in a depression, too much time:
I hate the newspaper, journalist
concept of time. I am beginning to
hate the musical concept of time too.
I think I lost the envelopes full of
notes I wrote in offices. Maybe that's
good. There are no years on them so
it doesn't matter. "So tired and depressed"
could sum up most of them. One is
most grateful for statements of
things as they are. "Realities."
The story of a depressed man who
kept track of time. Fuzziness. His
awareness of things, realities, he is
missing- another's voiced articulation
of these things, "realities." The
desire for news a desire for change-
the very deep longing for apolcalypse.


Have been without trances for nearly a month
and have no idea how I will pay my bills. I
went to see Les yesterday to task for more
money. He gave me some, enough to pay my rent
for a month. What is left from that will
pay for my food and cigarettes.
I've become used to the trances I don't know
what I'll do without them. I'm used to the
customers who listen to my predictions which are
90 percent accurate.


21 days but these are
doing nothing
teeming with ideas and images
what you see in it
and both the man and the girl
were from Tennessee. They really were.


December 18, 1975

Under a full sky
As empty as you can make it
I feel so good
I could dance
Comes out of nothing
Decorated like as or it
You make it

These are my words for you
And I know exactly what to do

Come closer
No go away, doesn't matter
So pretty- as clear as the
And you are, full moon

Words come at me from Everywhere
I tell you there were so many
I can't remember them
But I remember their opposites
LIke murder or sleep
Instead of waking and love
That person who you are escaping

Language come close to feelings,
I ask you to tell me what to say.
Words tell me what you are, what
do you want of me? Without words,
the boredom of words, with words.
What do they speak about even between
us? It was feelings, they have more
to do with it. Maybe I wanted to sing.
I saw you laugh. Be firm. Know
what was said and felt. Has to have
a solid base. Who were they, what
deals were being made out of needs.
No promises- but I know. And
day after day, minute by minute,
what it was that took us forward
into something. Not noticable
and always a little scary. You
laughed louder than anyone else and
your pleasure felt terrific. It was

We have to invent. We had
to invent shadows and earthquakes
to explain these dark tremors, these
slight variations of balance and

I imagned silence, I played with cars
and airplanes, I stood on a gigantic
skyscraper and thumped on my chest.
King Kong, that's who I was. I just wanted
to hold her, not to hurt her; I felt so
great and powerful.