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By Root 589 0

a great clot of keys would become hopelessly entangled, would refuse to untwist and fall back into their berths from the action of my whiplash fingertips and my energy would explode in fists pounding on the frame of the machine, which bore up admirably under the frenzies of the years—I’d write for love, with an artificial energy that betrayed all of puppy love's sickly fatigue, each day at least one outpouring of confusion and desire and violence, and then I’d shove it in the drawer with all the others, and then perhaps I’d drag my weary satisfaction to the bathroom, snatching a stray magazine along the way in hopes of encountering some slim filly squatting palms-to-chest in a girdle advertisement, and once inside I’d lock the door, tear down my pants, turn half around and lift the toilet's lid, finally to sit myself down on my throne and commence jacking off triumphantly, one hand clenched around my cock while the other mauled the open arm's-length magazine's curl of pages folded back and my eyes jerked up and down to my left hand's rhythm between that nameless postpubescent model's Sears catalog-wholesome moue and her primly shielded boyish chest, down her pale arms to where her unattainable thighs were suffocating for me within that ugly girdle's prism, locked away like distant record bins for all the times I came and for all my quick-breathed supplications, so my eyes would roll then down her usually lithe and luscious legs if such were possible, that is, if they weren’t folded under her leaving only squashed-out calves and slimlined thighs in view, and hitting bottom I’d let my vision lick her person in ascent once more, clicking into each strap to dig wildly at its impregnable wall.

A life without complications: no lover to be responsible to between times, just annals of sperm sagas set down on toilet paper or Kleenex or spit straight from my pendulous rod into the void, no formulations for the future except fantasies where I tramped the sloping sidewalks of North Beach or Greenwich Village a poet madman king in dada-colored castoff rags, no concept of writing as anything but a sacred squawking Aztec exorcism, no satisfactory concept of existence not bequeathed by mad bums, junkies, perverts, gray old “existential” misanthropes, or charlatans in scriptures almost memorized, no need for movement or action or social hangups apart from the daily high school gauntlet because home was a dizzy hive glutted with books and records and reams of type-jammed paper, once past living room skirmishes with an oldtime Bible mother declaiming her ailments, and on weekends there was the Kingdom Hall for me to stew in, Friday nights and Sunday nights pressure-cooking my torpid, squandered rage, while Saturday was swallowed by TV and long lawn-wallowings the motley number of us in the neighborhood's combined comic book collections until at last Great God CHICKS and a series of juicy Witness-slut girlfriends for easing adolescent virility hangups with long luscious afternoons in grass and hammocks and old couches in the shady patios behind their parents’ houses where we’d lie wrapped around each other like two clumsy cubs but man it felt better than any drugtrip I’ve ever had and a good deal of the sex since because our delight was unalloyed and ignorant, gleefully experimental like pygmies as I’d try to force my tongue down her throat and feel her nails scuffing semisuccessful attempts to claw my back like in the movies, and all those ball-breaking unrelieved erections, countless hernias as the heavy panting petting stretched on and on across the hours two animalistic adolescents obsessively embracing grinding cloth-walled groins together sliding calves in leglocks (her bare soft pink calves making my balls burn so I wanted to grab her leg and take a bite) Frenching fanatically in dusky backseats late-nite rooftops green Saturday gardens we mauled and tugged and tore at each other's flesh hungry pubescents frantic for orgasm-surrogates, because they would never touch my cock with their hands and had fucked no more than I. A succession