(pencilled note on top of page): A last page
What I didn't tell you is that I can sit for literally hundreds, maybe
thousands of hours totally amazed that it all turned out this way.
Maybe that just means I can't "respectfully dismiss" anything, but maybe Frank
O'Hara was right always addressing what he says to some person. A party
line, who's going to be let in on the conversation. Even if I resort to gulls,
to seashores and sandy beaches and tormented love affairs it is all part of the
news I was telling you about. A mix, I better steer clear of the phenomenological
phrases. He thinks maybe I meant get it wrecked trying to prove its validity.
I can see by your face that you're directly involved in this. It's not that
I'm being purely let outside...it's just that. The magazines. All or none
personal reference. A machine. Lots of space. Don't call. You did it. I
sat by and watched. Me a terrible person. Do something bad, in the abstactness
of language constantly referring to its own nouns I died inside a suit trying
to make it longer. Stuck. In the laundromat, can't.
An. It by getting sevens. Of happened. One ace seven door. Dry like a lick.
I've been stuck for what seems like thousands and thoughsends of days.
No language in the exact color I want it. But I notice by the intent that
the thousands of empty hours are not an accretion. It is the one frozen
second of a poem.
I have for 17 years cast in the frozen composition of one poem. The poem and
the hours and the lifeless sentences are static. Frozen slice of composition.
Terror of the end phrase in the immobillity of finite meanings.
The map belongs to me. It is my map., my words, my borrowed typwriter.
I don't want to meet sentences I want to meet people. Your sentences are
people and your conversation is included in this conversation. Stereotyped
fiction. A tape.
Another night that my heart won't go there. Another day that I'm not permitted
near the city.
Today I was angry at everyone.
Notebook: circa 1975-77