"watch me CRUNCH"
|
march 5th-8th Unable due to babyish whining little ole meaningless showcased DEPRESSION to do a posting over the weekend. People playing cards all wekend at a rectangular table below my cell. Wanted to picture it as a grave and JUMP. Away from you wretches. Into a warm pool. Oh, the pull. So cheap to stay and look unhappy. As we know, LOOKING TROUBLED brings out les sharks. Burst forth from your corpse and speed to the center of the earth. Go. Go.Go. It snowed like hell through the early part of the weekend, so batten down the hatches, as I think Spring will appear now. And as a rite of Spring every jail ought to take EACH inmate and shove him into a mad cow corpse. The only qualifiable, justifiable way out (without being shot)n is to get right in that filthy, bloody canal and PUSH your head through till you are reborn. (Friend of mine went to London once and published something about the SHOCK OF BIRTH). This, my darlings, THIS ...what I'm feeling now...is IT. THIS is the sort of job loozin, non sleepin hell that, between waves, allows one to put an affected fist to one's face in the laughin mirror. Some of the waves of exhaustion and fear bring also cacklin and magic. The sort that says with certainty, "anything can happen now"....(why, I oughta..). I did see in one of the weekend newspapers that there was a riot over the cigarette ban in one of the Colorado prisons. Not interesting unless you had your ear to the railroad track when I TOLD YOU that would happen. Okay, now I'm told that Justin Les Junkie actually got OUT of jail from the intake pod. He'd been convinced he was to go back to prison in Kansas. Pang du jealousy. I was just recalling (while swooning and giggling in my room) the other night how Justin told me once that he saw GLOPSKY les homosexuelle a walkin down les rue de Market in San Francisco, and the flippity flippity thing about it was that Monsieur Glopsky had decked himself out in some outfit wherin a gas mask was altered and extended so that some long curving tube went from crotch to nose. And this was the way some wretch presented himself to les Monde. Me, I feel that someone...anyone...wants to chase me into a dumpster and watch me CRUNCH. Can't go on like this forever. The bill I've wracked up at the hands of YOUR gouging is coming on a silver tray of noteriety. (Must you make a production out of everything?) Let's not forget I have been and am a weed from the rocks. I need, want, ask for, and GET next to nothing. But even though I function through all sorts of storms and even as you spit on me, you must know all things have a soft underbelly...you realize, of course, that the thing that would be MOST threatening and discombobulating to such a weed would be to be YANKED AROUND. Nothing in the mail call for me again...just an incident report from a Deputy who spends all her time clipping coupons from the newspapers. Deputy Starr and I talked about Paula's newspaper thing and Starr said, "this is not the first time I've heard of it". current | 1999 | 1998 | colfax diaries |